Difficult
by provocative envy
Summary: COMPLETE: "I should," I repeated. "But I don't want to." And then he smiled, and I was wrecked. HG/DM.
1. Prologue

**DIFFICULT**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**PROLOGUE**

I wasn't normally so dramatic.

That was all I could think as the silence deepened and thickened and turned poisonous; why had I opened my mouth at all? What had I been hoping to accomplish, exactly?

His eyes widened with a strange combination of surprise and resentment, and I felt a nervous flutter in my throat—were there more words, regrettably sharp, about to pour forth, uninvited? Had I totally lost control?

It wasn't so much what I'd said, though—it was something about my tone, something about the suddenness of my outburst that had changed the atmosphere for the worse.

"I…" he started to say, his voice shaky. But then he shook his head, let his jaw jut out, and blinked.

"I shouldn't have said that," I blurted out, wincing.

He studied me for a long, shadowy minute, his face etched with derision; a trickling sense of fear was traveling through my bloodstream and I started to wonder where the all-encompassing rage that I'd felt earlier had gone.

"D'you want to know why I missed her, then? _This_ is why I missed her," he finally spat, laughing—but his laugh was all wrong, it was cold, and humorless, and it made my stomach hurt to think about what he would say next.

"Sometimes—God, sometimes I just want to scream at you that _I get it_, okay? I _get_ that you're better than me at literally everything, usually without even meaning to be. I get that you're smarter, and, and more _responsible_, and more _prepared_ for things."

I was stunned, feeling every hateful word hit me, stinging, like a razor sharp raindrop.

"I just—I can't fucking stand it anymore, Hermione. You're too much. You're too…_hard_. It's _difficult_ to love you. What you just said…" he trailed off, pausing for a precious, uneven second before continuing. "All it did was remind me how much easier my relationship with _her_ actually _was_. She didn't go out of her way to make me feel inadequate…because _she didn't think I was inadequate_. Amazing, that."

"I didn't realize you wanted to be worshipped," I said woodenly, my mouth dry.

He snorted, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked away from me.

"It isn't about _worshipping_ me! It's about—fuck it, it's about thinking I'm someone _worth _worshipping. You walk around like you're in this whole separate _stratosphere_, as if I should consider myself lucky to be standing fifty feet beneath you."

He raked his hands through his hair while I stood, frozen, every last one of my muscles locked in place.

"It just isn't worth it," he said tiredly, his face softening. "I can't—"

"Right," I interrupted, feeling as if I'd been slapped. I couldn't help but think that if I'd just kept my mouth shut, and let things go more often, and not expected perfection…this conversation wouldn't be happening.

"It's just not worth it anymore," he repeated, shrugging.

And then there was a peculiar tightness beneath my eyes, and I knew that whatever tenuous hold I'd had over my wildly vacillating emotions had disappeared.

"Being cruel about it just seems a little unnecessary," I retorted, furious with myself.

He gaped at me, nonplussed, and I felt a shiver of guilt pass through my body. I was being horrible, melodramatic, and petulant—what had happened? Why had I snapped?

I remembered how happy we'd been in the beginning, when we still felt like two puzzle pieces finally realizing we fit, perfectly; I remembered the relief, that my best friend could be something more, something better, and how easy I thought our relationship would be. I remembered little things, falling asleep with our hands clasped, waking up to scruffy red hair and a bleary, sheepish grin; I remembered thinking, for years and years, that there couldn't be anyone else, would never be anyone else.

And in the space of ten minutes, I'd ruined everything.

It was humbling to think about the fact that while I was gliding along gracefully, believing everything between us was fine…he was apparently miserable, bitter, and hating me.

How was it possible to be so wrong?

"So you'll be getting back together with Lavender, I take it?" I asked gruffly, pressing my lips together.

"I…don't know. If she'll take me, I guess. Listen, I'm sorry I said what I did. I don't want things to be weird for us, Harry's got enough on his plate, right?" he chuckled awkwardly, raising his eyebrows as he waited for my response.

"Right," I said slowly.

And then he hugged me, sort of, if one arm being thrown haphazardly across my back counted as a hug, and he made up an obvious excuse to leave, and I was, very abruptly, left alone.

I stood still for several seconds, letting my gaze drift over the mottled gray surface of the lake in front of me. I was trying to understand what I was feeling, trying to label it, and I was finding it hard to come up with any adjectives.

I was upset, but not for any of the reasons I should have been.

I started to make my way back to the castle, dragging my toes in the grass as I walked.

I sighed, wondering how it was that I could be so good at memorizing spells and writing essays; but so incredibly _bad_ at dealing with people. I could never make sense of what they wanted from me—I lacked sensitivity, and this latest failure was nothing but a potent reminder that I should get used to being alone.

"Granger! Watch where you're going."

An unpleasantly familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.

"I didn't even—never mind," I responded tiredly, not wanting to argue—Draco Malfoy was rarely worth the energy.

"Why aren't you dragging Weasley around with you like a puppy? Isn't it about time for his walk?" he asked rudely.

I rolled my eyes and pushed past him, heading for the doors.

"And here I thought engaging you in conversation was what you wanted," he called after me. "You do _so_ love to talk."

I stopped walking and turned around.

"Certainly not to _you_," I replied stonily, glaring back at him.

He was smirking as he watched my face, his hands thrust in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.

"The feeling's mutual, I promise," he said lightly, before taking an oddly menacing step towards me. "But speaking of Weasley, how _are_ things between the two of you? I heard the most fascinating rumor, you see…"

My heart jerked to a halt. _Already_?

"We broke up, if that's what you're referring to. If you'll excuse me," I responded tightly, making a move to go inside.

"Well, you can't be too surprised about that," he said reasonably, a cruel glint in his eye. "I mean, for God's sake, you were more like his babysitter than his girlfriend."

I flinched—if _Malfoy_ had noticed, how had it escaped me?

"I didn't say I was surprised, but thank you for the…compassion."

He chuckled; the sound was like nails on a chalkboard, screechy and toxic, and it followed me, pounding my eardrums, as I trudged through the castle. I felt sick at the thought of Malfoy basking in my misery—except I wasn't miserable, I was angry.

It was humiliating to be the last one to know. I, the girl who prided herself on knowing everything about everything…hadn't known. Did I just have a debilitating lack of self-awareness? I _knew_ that I was pushy and controlling and predisposed to condescension; I had no trouble recognizing my flaws.

I'd been naïve, then. I'd assumed, because Ron was my friend, had known me for what felt like forever—I'd assumed that he would accept me for who I was, that I could be myself wholly and truly and not worry about the repercussions.

Obviously, I'd been wrong.

OOO


	2. I

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER ONE**

_Three Months Later_

Life went on, of course. There was no escaping responsibility and commitment and the dull monotony of time passing me by. But it was different, somehow—I felt detached, as if whatever had been tethering me to Ron and Harry and even magic had started to fray, unravel, tendril by tendril. And it should have unnerved me, how fragile these bonds had turned out to be, it should have made me uneasy how drastically things had changed in the space of a few short months.

But it didn't.

I knew that they blamed me. I knew that they huddled together in the boys' dormitory and talked about how I needed to move on, get over it, stop making things tough for them; I knew that they rolled their eyes behind my back when I didn't stop to chat on the way out of class. And I suppose I could have argued or explained or tried harder to make our friendship work.

But when nostalgia crept up and whispered sweet nothings in my ear, and all I wanted was another time turner, another chance, another ending to our story…I remembered how ugly we'd been to each other, how much his words had stunned me, hurt me, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to walk those final few feet towards them at the dinner table, couldn't bring myself to catch their searching, hopeful gazes in the common room.

And it was liberating, really—not having to worry about what I said or how I said it; not having to wonder if I measured up, if he was _really_ okay with waiting.

At this, I stood up, letting the legs of my chair scrape against the floor.

I didn't like to think about sex. The few times the subject had come up between us, I'd gotten jittery and uncomfortable, and I hated the idea of admitting that I was terrified of it, especially to the person I was supposed to be _having_ it with.

I picked up my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and resolutely shifted my thoughts away from the dangerous direction they were going. There was no point in tormenting myself.

I stared down the long, empty corridor outside of the library—except it wasn't empty. Draco Malfoy was walking directly towards me. There was an interminably awkward second of recognition—we both stopped, hesitating before continuing on, each of us clearly unwilling to be the one to back down.

I studied him as he approached, taking in the fiercely controlled way he walked, his footsteps measured and even. His hands were tense, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows; the muscles in his forearms were corded and stiff.

"Granger," he said shortly.

"Malfoy," I replied, nodding.

"Alone again?" he sneered.

"What does that matter?" I asked, annoyed.

He shrugged, cocking an eyebrow as he glanced away.

"Just an observation," he replied lightly, smirking.

I pressed my lips together, agitated more than I cared to admit to by his casual demeanor—how did he do that? How did he act as if he could barely be bothered, even while his eyes flashed silver gray sparks? Every inch of him was abuzz with tension, yet he appeared unruffled, his voice velvety soft.

"An obvious one," I ground out.

"Consider it a friendly reminder," he said congenially.

"Oh, we're friends now?" I asked sarcastically. "I mean, I _guess_ I can forgive you for the seven years of reckless, horrifying harassment I've endured. It's not too much to ask."

His expression hardened.

"Believe me, Granger, if you had any idea of what putting up with you was like—even from a bloody _distance_—you wouldn't call it harassment. You'd call it justice. For everyone," he snorted, watching me with distaste.

I shook my head, hitching my bag higher up on my shoulder.

"I get it, Malfoy. I'm annoying, et cetera. Can you please move? I have somewhere I need to be."

"You know, I think you might be lying about that," he answered slowly.

I let out an impatient breath.

"Fine. I won't be polite. I find your presence offensive and would like you to get out of the way so that I can leave."

"I don't think I will," he drawled thoughtfully.

He moved closer—I was suddenly nervous, curiously conscious of how much larger he was than me. He smelled clean, and I could see a faint smattering of coarse, blond hair along his jaw. His lips were pursed together, his eyes narrowed in a cruel sort of expectation; I was intimidated, ashamed, and he knew it.

I spun on my heel and went back towards the library, turning the corner with a sigh of relief.

"—mean, what would you have done? _No, Ron, that isn't how you do it, it's swish-flick-up, not swish-flick, down, don't you know anything? _Bloody hell, it was like having a meaner version of my mum following me around. How could I not regret leaving you? She was just so…ugh," Ron was saying, his voice echoing.

"Hello, Ron," I said loudly, my heartbeat stuttering. I kept walking, nodding graciously as I passed them. He swallowed noisily, she glanced furtively, guiltily away from me, and I let their silence seep into the walls, let it get swallowed up by the ancient stones and the centuries-old tapestries.

I stopped when I reached the staircase.

"You know, I sometimes used to wish that you would just…just shut the fuck _up_, Ron. Just…shut _up_."

Saliva pooled in my mouth, my throat felt tight, and my stomach muscles started to contract—violently, without remorse, and I was suddenly dizzy, angry, confused by the physicality of my reaction. I stumbled down the stairs and into the girls' room, headed for the sink, and felt an involuntary shudder take over my nervous system—I was heaving, lurching into darkness, my tongue tasting dusty and metallic, my skull feeling full, heavy, thick.

Inexplicably, I thought of Malfoy, thought of how ridiculous he would make me feel if he saw me like this, how silly and stupid and useless; he would mock me mercilessly, invalidate my emotions, pierce me with a scornful, awful glare.

I lifted my head up from the sink, inhaling deeply, and looked in the mirror, expecting a weepy, pathetic mess to be staring back at me. I was astonished, though, because I appeared—I appeared _angry_.

My skin was flushed, and my jaw was sharply set, and my eyes, normally such a placid, warm brown…my eyes were on _fire_, they were a furious, fiery amber color, and in that instant my brain caught up with my body and I realized that I had every right to hate him now, every right to ignore him. He'd tossed me aside—what, because I'd had the temerity to be _better_ than him?

I thought of all the times I'd grimaced inwardly after he'd said something particularly inane. I'd put up with so much, and it was hard to recall why I'd bothered.

I had spent most of my adolescence wanted to be accepted—by someone, anyone, really. I was built to be an outcast, my social awkwardness unfixable, inflexible; I'd latched onto Harry and Ron because no one else had offered, and I'd fallen in love with one of them because, well, who else was there?

I splashed cold water on my face and stood up straight.

Surely there was someone else; there had to be.

_Swish-flick-up_.

OOO


	3. II

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWO**

Later that night, after everyone else had gone upstairs, I sat, alone, in the Gryffindor common room. I was restless, unable to sleep, my brain working so fast, so hard, that it took me several minutes to notice that I was clenching my teeth, my thoughts so far out of my control it was laughable.

The thing was, I missed him.

_No_, I thought quickly, _I miss having_ _someone_ _there_.

It would be so easy to go up the stairs, wake him up, and apologize. I could have my old life back—my life before Ron and I had dated, at least—and it would be so incredibly easy.

I shook my head, stood up, and pulled on my cardigan.

Except that wasn't an option.

I knew that. I knew that I'd be doing myself a disservice, falling back into a comfortable routine that would always end badly. I knew that holding part of myself back, all the time, wasn't friendship. I didn't need to pick up a self-help book to understand that.

I climbed through the portrait hole and started to walk.

I was aimless, utterly and completely, as I ambled through the castle. I was so tired of planning, of practicing, of needing to know exactly what I was doing and when I was going to do it and _needing_, so very desperately, to be the best. I envied anyone able to drift through life, unscathed and uninterested; I wanted to ask them—is it easy, then? Is it easy to not care, to not wonder, all the time, what people thought about you?

Because that's what it came down to, of course; that's what it always came down to.

The sound of angry whispering brought me to my senses. I looked around, confused, before realizing that I was halfway up a spiral staircase, and the voices were coming from the top of the tower. Without thinking, I took the final few steps.

Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were standing a few feet apart, clearly arguing. Her cheeks were tearstained, her nose was pink, and her mouth was tense; Malfoy looked irritated, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set at an impatient angle.

Pansy noticed me before he did.

"Bloody fantastic," she snapped, wiping at her watery blue eyes.

I felt the tension, then, the animosity, and wondered what had caused it.

"I'm not dealing with this," she hissed at him before roughly shoving past me.

I rubbed my elbow where it had hit the doorway, watching Malfoy as he shook his head and let her leave.

"She's such a stupid bitch," he growled furiously. "Can't seem to grasp the concept of a relationship _ending_. Last I checked, I hadn't changed my mind, but feel free to keep acting fucking crazy."

"Fighting for what you want is hardly _'fucking crazy_'," I replied, feeling inexplicably stung by what he'd said.

"Yeah, you _would_ say that," he snorted, running his hands through his tousled blond hair.

"What does _that_ mean?" I demanded.

"Nothing," he shrugged, smirking horribly. "Just that you also seem to have a little problem letting go. How long has it been since Weasley broke up with you? Months, yeah? Get over it already. Quit punishing him. Just put him out of his misery and let him copy off your homework again."

"I never—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry if I misled you, but I _really_ don't care. You're even more boring—if that's even possible—when you're depressed."

I felt my skin flush a bright, lurid red.

"_You're_ the one who started this conversation, Malfoy."

"Yeah, I felt sorry for you. Thought you could probably use the socialization. No need to thank me."

I let out a harsh bark of laughter.

"_God_, it must be awful to be you. You're so sad, and angry, and—and _mean_."

"Yeah, and which one of us is alone? Oh, right—that'd be you—"

He stopped talking; I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, and that was when I heard it—footsteps, coming up the stairs.

He shot me a panicked look before pushing me into the shadowy alcove to my left; my back was flat against the wall, and with a swiftly muttered, "_Fuck_," he pressed his body against mine, draping his jacket over my shoulders.

It was too intimate.

It was too warm.

It was too _much_.

It was like walking too quickly down an unfamiliar staircase, missing a step, feeling my stomach drop, plummet, fall, untethered, down my abdomen; it was like time slowing down as I waited for the inevitable, as I scrambled to find my balance, splayed my hands out, expecting the ground to hit me sooner rather than later; it was like hoping someone might notice, might catch me before I tumbled too far forward, might grab onto me, tightly, before it was too late.

He clutched my forearm—I watched his knuckles turn white, the veins on his wrist pop up, out, and I felt vulnerable, stunned into silence by the unfamiliar feel of his skin touching mine. Our eyes met, and even in the darkness his gaze was fierce, unrelenting; he was telling me to stay quiet, warning me, and I swallowed, pressing my lips together as I looked away.

If we were caught, the rumors would be bad—but their implication would be so much worse.

We stood there, fused together, for what felt like forever. His hand didn't move, and my arm began to feel numb. The footsteps got closer and closer, a thin beam of light threading through the doorway, and we held our breath, hoping it would go away.

No such luck.

"Show yourselves," a deep, familiar voice drawled.

I felt Malfoy's muscles grow rigid.

Without a word, he turned around, shielding me from view.

"Draco," Snape said, his tone surprised. "Is that Parkinson there with you?"

"Who else would it be?" Malfoy asked, sounding bored. I heard him wipe his mouth.

Snape was quiet for a second.

"It's late," he offered calmly. "You both should be in bed."

Malfoy nodded; Snape turned to go, his heels barely making a noise on the exposed flagstones.

"Oh, and Draco…I saw Parkinson entering the Slytherin common room less than five minutes ago. Who's behind you?"

My heart stopped; I closed my eyes.

_Oh, no_.

OOO


	4. III

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER THREE**

"She got caught with _Malfoy_? Are you sure?"

"_Positive_. Weird, right? But I guess they've been secretly meeting in the Astronomy tower for _months _to, like, _do it_."

"Is that why he broke up with Pansy? _Oh_, my God! And I bet that's why Ron Weasley broke up with _her_!"

"How embarrassing to get caught by _Snape_, though. Of all people!"

"I know! I heard that she was in her knickers and _everything_."

The fifth year girls walking behind me started to giggle. I resolutely ignored them, clenching my teeth.

I thought about crying—just for a second. The urge to let go of the tension in my mouth, my shoulders, my eyes; it was so strong that I blindly went down an unfamiliar, empty hallway, taking deep, shuddering breaths, hoping that no one would see me, wondering how it was that I'd found myself here.

I leaned back against a dusty, musty tapestry, shutting my eyes, and let my posture go, my muscles relax. I jerked my racing, irrepressible thoughts to a halt, felt my brain jolt, and decided to give up and give in—so much was already outside of my control, my life, the stupid, vicious, _ludicrous _rumors, and how was it that anyone even believed them?

And that was when I realized that I was laughing.

It was coming from nowhere, bubbling up my chest—and I couldn't hold it back.

I was hysterical. I was hunched over, my feet pointed in, my hands clasped to my knees, I could barely _breathe_, but something light and airy was easing its way into my bloodstream, something that was causing me to question myself.

How could I possibly care what these people were saying about me? They didn't know me, they didn't know Malfoy, and they certainly had no understanding of what had really happened that night. They hadn't seen the way Snape's face had slackened in astonishment, the way his glittery black eyes had widened and widened and widened—_not_ because I was half-naked, but because I was _there_.

He'd been speechless.

I grinned at the memory.

These people, these nameless, faceless strangers, hadn't seen Draco Malfoy look back at me and snarl, "Pansy was right. _Fan-fucking-tastic_, Granger."

They hadn't watched as Snape blinked, repeatedly, as if to make sure I wasn't a hallucination; they hadn't heard him outline our punishment, in excruciating detail—eight weekends of brewing potions for the hospital wing—_together_.

I snorted and stood up, glancing at my watch.

It was half past ten, and I was late.

OOO

I wasn't sure why I'd gone back up there. Insomnia was hardly an excuse—there were a hundred other places I could have snuck off to, places less conspicuous and more accessible, places that wouldn't be downright dangerous to be caught in.

_Caught in again_, I reminded myself.

But something had changed the other night, something rather significant, and I didn't know why. The previous three months were like a gaping, black blur in my memory, the hours and minutes and seconds hopelessly melded together; but the past few days had been different, somehow, more—more _vibrant_.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Granger? Haven't you caused enough trouble?" a loud voice demanded sullenly.

Startled, I turned around, astonished to see Malfoy leaning against the doorway.

"Everyone already thinks I'm here, anyway," I responded, shrugging carelessly. "What's the big deal?"

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Ah, yes," he said snidely. "But shouldn't you be in your knickers?"

I blushed and looked away.

"That, I think, is my favorite one," he continued, ignoring my embarrassment. "It's just so…"

"Unbelievable," I finished, glancing up at him.

"Unbelievable," he echoed, nodding. "As if I'd ever…do _that_…with _you_."

"Tell me," I blurted out, "do your friends believe any of it?"

He regarded me curiously.

"Of course not," he replied, nonplussed. "If you had any yourself, you'd probably already know that, though."

"What about Pansy?" I persisted.

"Actually, I think she might," he laughed meanly. "Mad with jealousy, she is. Thinks you slipped me a love potion and that's why I ended things. Bloody ridiculous, isn't it?"

"That I gave you a love potion or that she believes I did?"

"Both, Granger. Don't be thick."

"I'm not being _thick_," I retorted. "I'm just curious. It's difficult for me to understand how people can think any of this is true."

"Hard for you to hear, is it?" he drawled.

"It's just—it makes me feel pathetic, doesn't it? You're, well, _revolting_. Hateful. _No one_ likes you. You're—"

"Yeah," he interrupted angrily. "And you're an annoying fucking mudblood with frizzy hair and an overbite. How fucking romantic are we?"

He came to stand next to me at the window.

"Imagine what they'd say if they saw us now," he said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the ledge.

"They'd say we were fighting," I responded tightly. "Having a spat."

"No, they'd say it was all for show. So we could have make-up sex. Haven't you been paying any attention, Granger? They think seven years of totally justifiable animosity was nothing more than—than _foreplay_."

My tongue felt heavy in my mouth as I processed what he was saying.

"Oh," I whispered, swallowing.

"They're wrong, of course," he continued, oblivious to my discomfort. "I can't stand you. Never could. It isn't a conspiracy."

I smiled slightly.

"Maybe not," I replied, staring out at the night sky. "But it _is_ kind of a nightmare."

He looked down at me, narrowing his eyes.

"You should be flattered, I think."

"_Flattered_?" I repeated, dumbfounded. "I should be _flattered_ that everyone thinks I'm desperate enough to—to, _what_? Forget how you've treated me? Forget how horrible of a human being you are? You're sitting there laughing at your girlfriend for being upset, as if it's _hilarious _that her feelings are hurt. Forgive me if I find this all rather _depressing_, not fucking _flattering_."

"Relax, Granger," he said coldly. "None of it really happened, remember?"

"It's the principle of it."

"_God_," he exploded, turning to face me. "What is it with you and your bloody _principles_?'

"At least I _have_ some," I retorted.

"Do you?" he sneered. "Last I heard, you were fucking the school bully in the astronomy tower in your spare time."

My hand struck his face so quickly, so fiercely, that it took us both by surprise. The sound of the slap rang in my ears, powerfully, brutally—a furious red mark blossomed across his cheek, and his eyes suddenly met mine, holding on tightly, and I couldn't look away.

"What the _fuck_, Granger," he said, his voice low.

He didn't blink, not even once, as he studied me, and I licked my lips nervously.

"You shouldn't have said that," I replied quietly.

He continued to watch me, his expression shuttered.

"Had I known it would incite violence, I probably wouldn't have," he snorted, gingerly rubbing his skin.

"You deserved it," I said defensively.

"Did I?" he asked scornfully. "I was just repeating what I'd heard at breakfast today. Planning on attacking them, too?"

"No."

"Any particular reason?"

"Yes, actually," I replied firmly. "They don't know any better. _You_ do."

"Are you stupid? Of course they _know better_," he spat. "It's just fun for them to watch Potter's golden girl finally slip up. Make a mistake. Get in bed with the enemy, so to speak. You're a fucking _novelty_ right now."

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, my fingers trembling.

"So, if I'm a novelty…what are you?" I asked.

"I'm…" he trailed off, smirking. "I'm still the school bully, Granger. Nothing's changed."

OOO


	5. IV

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Several hours later, I was still thinking about Draco Malfoy.

I was thinking about how I'd hit him—thoughtlessly, impulsively—and how it hadn't felt as good as I'd always imagined it would.

It had fucking felt _better_.

I let my lips curve upwards as I pictured his milk-white, furious face, the annoying dullness gone from his eyes and replaced with something infinitely more interesting—he'd become human, somehow, more real, in those fleeting few seconds of silence.

I sat up and pulled back the curtains of my bed—the sun was starting to rise and I was too energized to sleep.

Unluckily, the other girls in my dormitory were also beginning to stir.

"Where were _you_ last night, Hermione?" Lavender Brown's voice was groggy, soft, and curious.

"Studying," I replied curtly, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress.

"Yeah, right," someone muttered.

Muffled laughter erupted; Lavender looked embarrassed.

I gritted my teeth, making my way to the bathroom.

"She's _shameless_," Parvati Patil snickered.

I paused as I passed her.

"Why am I shameless, Parvati?" I demanded, feigning ignorance.

Her eyebrows shot up.

"I think you _know_," she sputtered.

"No," I said pointedly. "No, I don't."

A thick, awkward silence permeated the confines of our room, pushing against the windows and settling like dust on the wallpaper.

"Come on, guys, stop it," Lavender interjected nervously.

But I needed to hear Parvati say it—I needed to hear it from someone who had slept five feet away from me for the past seven years, from someone who should know better.

"Well?" I asked, cocking my head to the side.

She glanced away.

"We all know where you were last night," she said tightly. "There's no use in lying about it."

"No," I responded, angry. "Not good enough. _What_ exactly was I doing last night? Since you seem to be so well-informed?"

Her large dark eyes finally met my own.

"You were having it off with Draco Malfoy," she said calmly, squaring her shoulders. "_That's_ what you were doing."

I stared at her, swallowing, my throat raw. How was this happening? How was she standing there, brazen and unapologetic, and _saying_ that? We'd never been friends, not really, but that shouldn't have made a difference—how long had she known me? How many times had she seen me cry into my pillow after a particularly spiteful fight with Ron?

"You don't actually believe that?" I asked, incredulous.

"I don't know," she said, clearly uncomfortable. "You're…not the same, Hermione. No one really knows you. Not anymore. I wouldn't be surprised if that's what you've been up to."

And then she shrugged and grabbed her toothbrush, pushing open the bathroom door with her hip.

I decided to skip my shower. I threw on a blouse and a skirt, hoping that I could keep my composure until I made it down the stairs and out of the Common Room.

"Hermione? What's wrong?" A concerned male voice interrupted me.

_Harry_. _Of course_.

"Nothing," I said quickly, moving past him.

"Are you sure?" he called after me, confused. "Is this about the Malfoy thing?"

There was a time when I might have confided in him, when I might have stopped running and turned back, knowing that even if he couldn't fix anything, he'd at least listen. But Parvati was right—everything had changed, and Harry didn't know me. Not anymore.

I glanced over my shoulder, biting my lip.

"I'm…" I thought about telling him anyway, thought about asking him if he agreed with her; but then I realized that I didn't know what he would say, wasn't sure if he believed the rumors or not, and I stopped. "I'm fine, Harry. Promise."

"I don't think—" I heard him start to say.

But I was already gone.

OOO

It didn't really matter—I knew that. I knew that it was nothing more than a silly, nasty, groundless rumor that would be forgotten by the end of the month. I knew that.

But it was like being scared of the dark, even after you were all grown up: you knew, logically, that it didn't make any sense, that there wasn't anything lurking in the shadows waiting to grab you. But you still shivered when the lights went out, still felt your stomach muscles contract into a tiny, stiff ball when you heard the curtains rustle, because you couldn't be _certain_ that there was nothing there, could you?

I thought about my conversation with Parvati and petulantly threw a small, smooth stone into the lake. I couldn't get her words out of my head, couldn't stop repeating them under my breath as I watched the giant squid lazily flick a tentacle out of the water.

_You're…not the same, Hermione_.

I knew that, too. I knew that something inside of me had been permanently altered the day that Ron had broken up with me. How could it not have been? He'd performed a wholly accurate character assassination without pretense or exaggeration. Of course I'd retreated, disappeared, let myself go missing; it was so much better than the alternative.

But it was easy to pretend I no longer cared when I was being ignored; it was easy to act indifferent when no one was looking. Except now…now, everyone was looking and watching and _judging_ me, all the time—and I wasn't a very good actress.

"Are you _seriously_ talking to yourself, Granger?"

I sighed, squinting up at the sun.

"Yes, Malfoy, that's exactly what I'm doing. Rude of you to interrupt, don't you think?"

He sat down on the grass next to me, drawing one knee up, and grinned.

"Hardly rude when you consider all the things I let you do to me last night," he laughed, glancing suggestively at the space between our thighs.

I blinked, disgusted, and caught the shift in his gaze. I whipped my head around, surprised to see Pansy Parkinson and a group of Slytherins observing us from the courtyard.

I stood up very suddenly, my vision cloudy.

"You're—you're telling people it's true, aren't you?" I demanded, glaring down at him.

He rolled his shoulders back and smirked, gracefully getting to his feet.

"_Why_ are you doing this? It's not like it _only_ affects me, you stupid prick," I hissed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

"Oh, I don't know," he drawled. "Maybe because I know how very much it bothers you? Or, no, maybe it's because of the look on Weasley's face at breakfast earlier. Missed you there, by the way."

"There's no way Ron would ever believe this," I retorted, snorting.

But I wasn't sure.

"And why is that? It isn't as if you're friends anymore," he pointed out. "Plus, why would I lie? You're hardly a _trophy_, Granger. You must understand _that_."

"I should have hit you much harder last night," I ground out, turning my back and taking a step towards the castle.

He grabbed my elbow, forcing me to face him.

"You're probably right," he agreed. "A bruise or two would have given a few of my stories _much_ more credibility."

I stared at him, bemused.

"Do you really hate me this much?" I asked, curious.

He studied me for a second, his jaw set at a harsh angle.

"Yes," he replied simply. "Of course I do. Besides, this is _far_ more humiliating for you than it is for me. I'm _supposed_ to be slimy and duplicitous and awful. But you? No, you're _above_ all of that, aren't you? Or…you _used_ to be."

He looked up at the courtyard, at the other students hovering around in horrible little circles as they watched us, and his eyes flashed.

"Look at them," he remarked casually. "Fucking vultures."

And that was when he kissed me.

I was so astonished that I froze while he ferociously pressed his lips against mine, letting our teeth bump together, and I felt a fierce shudder of revulsion pulse through my body as I pushed, hard, against his chest.

"Get _away_ from me," I grunted, tripping backwards. I heard Pansy shriek.

"Oh, no need to play the virgin for me, Granger," he said, wiping his mouth. "We're _well_ past that."

My cheeks burned at the word _virgin_.

"I can't believe you just did that," I whispered, horror dawning. "In front of—in front of _so_ many people."

"That was, in fact, the _point_, as it happens."

"Why…why are you _doing_ this?"

He smiled cruelly.

"Why _not_?"

OOO


	6. V

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"—I just can't believe her. _Why_ would she be doing this? It's not like her, right? Right, Harry?" Ron was babbling, and I had to intervene.

"No, it absolutely _isn't_ 'like me'," I interrupted, sinking into the nearest armchair and gazing at the fire. They blinked in surprise.

"Are you…talking to us again?" Harry ventured cautiously, glancing at Ron.

I sighed.

"I suppose," I replied tiredly. "It's just—this Malfoy thing..."

Harry flinched.

"It's not true, then?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Of course it's not true," I snapped, glaring at him.

Harry visibly relaxed.

_They believe me_, I thought, dazed.

"Thank _God_," Harry exclaimed, relieved. "We were there, in the courtyard the other day, and, well, from a distance, it looked kind of…well, it looked pretty _real_, if you know what I mean."

"_Very_ real," Ron grunted.

"He's doing it to torment me," I said, picking at my fingernails.

"If you ask me, _Parkinson_'sthe one who's being tormented," Ron chuckled. "Should've seen her, 'Mione, she turned _bright_ red, and screamed—sort of like a bird, really, you know, the ones that Sirius would send Harry, the tropical ones?—well, she _screamed_, right, and then stormed off, and—"

I watched him talk, his face animated, and heard Harry laugh; and just like that, I felt thirteen again, snuggled in the Common Room past midnight, listening to my two best friends make a mockery of the Slytherins. It was before Ron and I had kissed, before we'd ruined everything, before he'd tried to seduce me on Christmas Eve, with his cold, clumsy hands fumbling around my underwear—I winced at the memory.

"—should we do to him, then, Hermione?" Harry was saying.

"What?" I blurted.

"What should we do to Malfoy? To get revenge," he clarified expectantly.

I eyed him thoughtfully, wondering how to respond.

"Harry," I said softly, "this isn't your responsibility."

"What are you _talking_ about, 'Mione, of course it is," Ron interjected, throwing me a grin. "Reckon it'll be like old times, plotting against him."

I pressed my lips together.

"And you're going to tell Lavender? That you're going to, _what_, rescue me, or something? How's she going to take that?" I asked crossly.

They both went quiet; Ron looked away guiltily.

"Thank you for believing me, both of you, but…this isn't your battle anymore," I said.

"Well—what are you going to do, then?" Harry inquired.

"I'm not sure," I replied honestly, standing up.

"You can't let him get away with this," they said simultaneously.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because—because the whole school thinks you're—well—" Ron stammered.

"A tramp?" I finished for him, shaking my head. "I don't think I care about that anymore."

I was halfway up the stairs before I allowed myself a smile.

OOO

I woke up the next morning to an empty dormitory. Yawning, I climbed out of bed and pulled on a chunky red sweater, twisting my hair into a careless knot as I glanced at the clock above the door.

_11:34_.

I'd missed breakfast, so I might as well get to the library. It was a Hogsmeade weekend—I'd have it to myself.

_Not like anyone would bother me, anyway_, I thought sardonically. The edgy, muffled whispers that had followed me around for weeks had erupted into something bigger, something more sinister—they had proof now, they didn't have to guess or question or wonder: he'd kissed me, confirmed it, and there wasn't another side to the story anymore.

Before all of this had happened, I'd been alone by choice; but now I was a pariah, an outcast, banished to a peculiar sort of adolescent hell.

I grimaced. No, no one would bother me.

I traipsed through the castle, drumming my fingers against the leather strap of my book bag. It was a remarkably pretty day outside for March, a rather lovely end to winter, and I couldn't wait until it was warm enough to study outside.

"—a _Mudblood_, Draco," a low female voice echoed in the empty hallway.

I stopped walking, falling back around the corner as I strained my ears to listen.

"What's your point, Pansy?" Draco Malfoy sounded bored.

"You _know_ what my point is," she whispered furiously. "Or did you forget?"

There was a tense silence.

"Of course I didn't forget," Malfoy replied distantly, his tone muted. "How could I, with you here to remind me?"

"If I told your father he would be so embarrassed—"

"Embarrassed? My _father_? You've met the man, Pansy, and he doesn't _do_ embarrassed," he said coldly.

"_Draco_. In a few months everything's going to change, you _know_ that, and you can't keep running around with a fucking _muggle_. He won't allow it."

"Exactly. In a few months. Let me have my fun, Pansy."

"_Granger_? _Fun_? Are you _serious_?" she sputtered.

"Granger has nothing to do with it," he snorted. "I promise."

"Draco," she pleaded. "What are you doing? You're going to ruin everything, don't you see that? She can't be worth it, not after—"

"Piss off, Pansy," he sneered, cutting her off.

And then he was striding towards me, his shirt wrinkled and his tie undone, and I took a quick step backwards, pretending to rifle through my bag.

"This is just _too_ convenient," he snickered as he rounded the corner and saw me.

I looked up at him, feigning irritation, my heart beating a quick, thunderous staccato against my ribs. _What had they been talking about_?

"Why do you seem to be _everywhere_ lately?" I complained. "It's so…unpleasant."

"I like to annoy you," he replied coolly. "But it also serves the dual purpose of promoting our ferociously dramatic love story. The first years think it's all _very_ romantic."

"It's not a _love story_," I spat, feeling a traitorous blush creep up my neck. "As far as they're concerned, it's nothing more than—than cheap, meaningless sex in a broom closet."

He gawked at me for a moment before roaring with laughter.

"A _broom closet_?" he repeated, smirking.

I shrugged, swallowing, not wanting to admit that I had no idea where an amorous tryst might conceivably occur.

"Excuse me," I muttered, moving past him.

He let me go, his amusement palpable.

"You're not going to stop me?" I called out, halfway down the hall.

"Of course not," he sneered. "We don't have an audience. No point in torturing myself."

I deliberately walked back to him.

"I heard you, you know," I remarked, hoping that I sounded nonchalant. "You and Pansy."

He folded his arms over his chest.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I answered, suddenly uncomfortable. "Why are you letting her believe all of it? Why do that to her?"

His expression flickered for a second.

"Maybe she'll mention something to my father," he said casually, refusing to look at me. "You never know, right?"

I felt my lips part with surprise.

"You want—this is about your _father_?"

He clenched his jaw, his gaze inscrutable.

"What does it matter to you, Granger?"

I studied him, feeling rage begin to slowly simmer in my stomach.

"You know what they're saying at me, don't you? You know what I'm being called?"

He leaned against the wall, finally meeting my eyes.

"I've heard a few things," he admitted, cocking his head to the side.

"And you know that this could have all just—just _gone away_ if you hadn't—done what you did the other day?" I stammered.

"You mean if I hadn't _kissed _you? Is that what you mean?" he demanded cruelly.

I flinched, turning my back.

"That wasn't a kiss," I said fiercely, whipping around to face him. "Oh, it may have _physically_ qualified as one, and our mouths might have touched—but it wasn't a real kiss."

He stared at me for what felt like forever—the seconds stretched, melded together, interminable, and I suddenly wanted him to say _something_, _anything_, to stop the silence, because I wasn't sure what was happening, why my feet felt glued to the floor, why I couldn't look away.

"You're right," he finally said. "It wasn't."

And then his palm was cupping my face, his thumb brushing across my skin with feather-soft precision, and I stopped breathing. His eyes were narrowed, hard and gray, and his brow was crumpled, and he appeared to be concentrating very, very hard—and then the spell was broken, shattered, and his arm dropped.

"What—" I started to say, swallowing nervously.

"I don't know," he said, exhaling loudly. "But you're right."

"Right about what?" I asked, confused.

He shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"The other day," he clarified, starting to walk away. "It wasn't a real kiss."

OOO


	7. VI

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER SIX**

I ran all the way back to the comforting, familiar confines of my dormitory, my knees nearly buckling beneath me as I climbed the rickety spiral stairs. Gasping for air, I tore off my clothes, hurling them into a dusty, unused corner of my trunk—I never wanted to see them again, I wanted to bury them, burn them, toss them unceremoniously out the window.

I lurched into the washroom, blindly turning a knob in the shower; I needed steam and water and soap to desensitize me, cleanse me, to make my skin burn with a tangible, logical sort of heat, a heat that was different in every imaginable way from the one that was currently wrapping itself around me like a blanket.

He'd touched me.

He'd touched me softly, gently, even while the air between us was polluted with anger and tension and a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand other things that I couldn't identify.

He'd touched me, and I hadn't pulled away, I hadn't stopped him.

I'd _let_ him.

I leaned against the ceramic-tiled wall, slick with condensation, and swallowed noisily.

I'd let him, and I'd liked it

I'd held my breath, secretly—oh, so secretly—wanting him to take a step towards me, wanting him to let his fingers trail down my cheek, my jaw, my neck, wanting him to explain how it was possible that his eyes were so cold and his hands were so warm.

I reached up, adjusting the shower head, tilting my face towards the spray.

I had no excuse; no explanation. I thought, almost dispassionately, of how much easier my life would have been if I had responded like that to Ron's good-intentioned groping.

Blinking, I turned off the water, standing still and feeling the steady drip of wet hair against my back. I reached for a towel, eager to be enveloped in its uncompromising, fluffy whiteness, and tucked it around my chest, using the corner to wipe ferociously at the foggy mirror in front of me.

I watched at my reflection, unsmiling: pale skin, generous mouth, brown eyes. Something guarded about my expression—a cautiousness that hadn't always been there.

Abruptly, my towel fell to the ground.

My eyelids fluttered shut.

I took a deep breath.

And then I opened my eyes, allowing my gaze to travel, unrestricted, unrepentant, over my body—I never looked at myself naked, always hurried through getting dressed and undressed, uncomfortably aware of my own shyness. But now I stared, unabashed, at my bony limbs and my too-skinny shoulders, my tongue darting out to wet my suddenly dry lips.

I felt my hands drift, almost of their own accord, down my arms, brushing away stray drops of water; they traveled back up, slowly, quivering for a second before sliding over my breasts, my stomach, my hips, my touch gradually getting firmer, less hesitant—and then they stopped, my fingertips pressed against the tops of my thighs, and I didn't know what to do.

I heard something slam, loud and brash and unexpected, and I was jolted out of my reverie, dismayed by my own indiscretion. I scrambled to wrap myself back into my towel, nervously eyeing the door as it was pushed carelessly open.

It was Lavender; of course it was Lavender.

"Oh," she said uncomfortably, her footsteps faltering. "I didn't realize—"

"No, no, it's fine," I hurried to say. "I'm just finishing up."

She glanced at my bare legs before walking stiffly towards the sink. I quickly grabbed my comb, running it smoothly through my hair as she washed her hands.

"Hermione," she said quietly, her back to me. "Can I ask you something?"

"I—I suppose," I managed to reply.

"Did you—did you and Ron ever…" she trailed off. "You know."

My jaw dropped; she noticed my reaction and spun around, her face desperate.

"He says you didn't, but I don't know, you were together for quite a long time, you know? And, well, now that you're with Malfoy—oh, no, please don't look like that, I know you never meant for that to get out, but I'm happy for you, really, I am—it just seems like…well, you know—"

"That because I'm easy, there's no way we _didn't_ do it?" I finished for her.

I wanted to laugh, then, because I was struck by the fact that I—the most sexually repressed girl in Britain—was now the school slut.

_The school bully and the school slut_, I thought wryly. _How charming_.

"Well—no, of course I didn't mean—I was just so _curious_, because why would he lie, you know? I'm so sorry—I shouldn't have said _anything_, I'm so _stupid_ sometimes—"

"Lavender," I said, sadness creeping into my voice. "It's okay. I'm not offended. Really. To be honest, I'm more surprised that you're speaking to me at all—no one else is. But…Ron and I never had sex. Or even came close to it, for what it's worth."

And then she collapsed into an irritating flurry of relief and apologies, her cheerful twittering echoing sharply in my head, and I'm not even sure she noticed when I slipped silently out the door.

OOO

It was much too cold to be sitting outside. The trees were still bare, and the grass was still frozen crisp, and the air was so frigid that every gust of wind stung my exposed skin like a rusty razor blade.

But I'd needed to get away. I'd needed to escape the suffocating, overwhelming silence, the judgmental snickering, and the sidelong, overfamiliar glances from boys I barely knew. I'd needed to stop thinking about Draco Malfoy's thumb rubbing across my cheek, to stop remembering the way he'd looked at me—with blatant dislike, not that it mattered. My muscles had still dissolved into a gelatinous mess, my brain had still gone blank, and I was still certain that I'd never been touched like that before, with that odd, intoxicating blend of reverence and curiosity and indecision.

And because I'd needed to stop, I'd gone outside, believing that fifteen minutes of mind-numbing cold would fix me. And maybe it would have worked—if he hadn't already been sitting on a bench in the courtyard, elbows resting on his knees, totally unaware of my presence.

Until he looked up.

"Granger," he said flatly. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I could say the same to you," I retorted uneasily, watching him get to his feet.

"Yeah, well, it's fucking fifteen degrees outside," he said, his tone clipped. "Thought I might, I don't know, be left the fuck alone. _My bad_."

I pursed my lips, surprised by how angry he was.

"There's no need to take it out on me," I pointed out, shivering. "It's not like I _followed_ you."

He kicked at a lonely, icy shrub peeking out through the flagstones.

"Yeah, well, at least you're not Pansy, right?" he sneered, sitting back down.

"Oh, I don't know," I mused bitterly. "This might be a bit less awkward if I was."

"Or not."

"What did she do to you, anyway? You've been particularly awful to her lately."

He chewed the inside of his lip, tipping his head back and staring at the pitch black, starless sky.

"She's pushy. And controlling. And manipulative. And she hides behind those fucking dimples, as if any girl capable of simpering couldn't possibly be a conniving bitch underneath all the lipstick," he growled, snorting.

I jerked back, involuntarily, surprised by his bluntness.

"I—I see."

"And she fucking _hates_ you, Granger," he said, smirking. "Hates you more than words could possibly express. Especially now. Stole me from right under her adorable, freckled nose. Or that's the story, at least. Right?"

I didn't answer him.

The moon was nothing more than a sliver of silver that night—it was almost eerily dark with the walls of the castle looming over us, casting a shadow so unfathomably large that it was hard to tell if it ever ended.

"Do you want to know why Ron broke up with me?" I heard myself ask, shoving my hands in my coat pockets.

"I imagine it was because you're the most vexing fucking female on the planet."

"No, that's not why," I said, plopping down at the end of his bench. "He broke up with me because—" I felt an inappropriate giggle claw its way up my throat. "He broke up with me because I said—I said, _'Draco Malfoy would be a better boyfriend than you, Ron_.' Took it rather personally, you know."

He turned to face me, his mouth hanging open, and I fell backwards, my shoulders shaking, unable to suppress my laughter.

"How—how _ridiculous_ is that?" I demanded between breathy, helpless chuckles.

There was a peculiar ache in my chest as I watched him smile, watched the familiar, scowling lines of his face fade away; he was handsome, I realized, the arresting symmetry of his features only noticeable when his lip wasn't curled up with derision.

"Supremely fucking ridiculous," he agreed. "Although, it's only fair to note that I _would_ be a far better—"

"Well, isn't this cozy," a brittle female voice interrupted.

Pansy Parkinson stood in the arched entranceway, her eyes glittering a treacherous, furious blue.

Malfoy eyed her lazily, and draped his arm across the back of the bench, his fingers toying with my hair.

"Go away, Pansy."

"I don't think I will," she replied shrilly, glaring.

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable.

"He's using you, you know," she hissed at me.

"Am I?" he drawled unpleasantly. "I wonder why that would be." He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Oh, now I remember. It's because you've gotten rather fat, Pansy. And what's the saying, darling? Something about only trusting someone as far as you can…throw them?" He looked her up and down, slowly, painfully, nastily, and I felt my stomach clench. "Couldn't throw _you_ very far, I'd imagine."

He stood up, gripping my arm, dragging me with him.

And then I pretended I couldn't hear her cry as I remembered why I hated him.

"That was cruel," I whispered, jerking away from him as we entered the castle.

"She deserved it."

"Does anyone?" I demanded.

"You've said far worse things to me. You've even hit me," he shot back, exasperated. "Did _I_ deserve it?"

"Yes!"

He shook his head.

"Can't have it both ways, Granger."

OOO


	8. VII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

_Can't have it both ways, Granger_.

I scoffed, scraping a brush through my hair and glowering at the rumpled sheets on my bed. Since when was he an appropriate moral compass? He was petty and mean and horrible; he was hardly in a position to judge anyone, let alone me.

Scowling, I grabbed my bag and wandered down to the Common Room, hoping I wouldn't run into anyone. I was in a foul mood, and disapproving, censorious glares would only make it worse.

"Hermione!"

Harry was waving me over from a table by the window, his emerald green eyes annoyingly cheerful.

"Sorry, I have to go," I replied impatiently, thinking of Snape's sunken, sallow cheeks and the seemingly endless list of potions he would assign me when I arrived. After Malfoy had kissed me the previous week, Snape had decided that our detentions would be best served separately; I didn't relish having to tackle the work on my own.

"No, no, come on, this will only take a second."

Groaning, I walked over to him, already irritated.

"What is it, Harry? I have to be at Snape's in fifteen minutes."

"You know how the other night we were talking about what we should do to Malfoy? Because of the whole—"

"Yeah," I interrupted sharply. "I remember. I told you it didn't matter."

"Well," he said, grinning, "Ron and I disagree. We think it matters quite a bit. And we came up with something that I think you'll really appreciate—Hermione? Where are you going?"

I was shaking my head, already at the portrait hole.

"I don't want to _get revenge_, Harry," I cried. "I don't really even _care_ anymore. The damage is done; making Draco Malfoy squirm won't change that."

"But—"

"Just _stop_, okay?"

He stared at me, visibly appalled.

"What's _wrong_ with you? That supercilious rat bastard tried to _ruin you—_"

"We're graduating in three months, Harry! What will _any_ of this matter, then? What does it even matter _now_? Do you think I care that everyone, _what_, believes I'm some kind of—of _traitor_, or something? What are they calling me now? 'Malfoy's Mistress'? It's fucking ridiculous, it's not even worth _defending_ myself over, and I just—I just want to forget about it, okay?"

"No, it's not okay," he said, nostrils flared. "But I won't bother you again, I guess."

And then I let myself out, furiously stomping all the way to the dungeons.

_Can't have it both ways, Granger_.

OOO

I should have been eating dinner. But I wasn't hungry, and I didn't want to see Harry, and sitting cross-legged in front of the lake, freezing, seemed like a good alternative. Hours after the fact, I was still wondering why I'd reacted the way I had—knowing, all the while, that he was just trying to be helpful.

Friendly.

Protective, even.

All I had wanted to do, though, after he'd started talking, was push him as far away as he would go; I wanted to remind him that we weren't fifteen, that everything was different now, that he didn't _know_ me, not anymore, and it was time to grow up.

I had wanted to be cruel, and I had no idea why.

"Thought you might be here."

I turned around, startled, only to see Malfoy standing behind me, leaning against a tree.

"Were you—were you _looking _for me?"

"No," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm not that desperate, Granger."

I pursed my lips.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything," he replied, shrugging. "But I doubt I'll answer. I don't like you, remember?"

"Clever," I snorted.

He didn't respond, his gaze sweeping over the water.

"Did you ever love her?" I demanded.

"Did I ever love _who_?"

"Pansy. Did you ever love her? Did you ever even _like_ her?"

He slowly straightened and came towards me, his eyes narrowed.

"Of course I did," he said easily. "She worshipped me. It was easy to love her."

That last fight with Ron, months ago, came back to me like a rough punch in the gut: _"I didn't realize you wanted to be worshipped."_

"And now you hate her."

"I never said that."

I gaped at him.

"You—you didn't really _have_ to," I sputtered. "You—I mean, the things you say to her—they're _awful_."

He raised an eyebrow, smirking.

"Let me put it this way. I don't exactly _discriminate_ against anyone when it comes to being—how did you put it?—_awful_, yeah?"

I leapt to my feet, livid.

"Bullshit," I spat. "You have a reason for _everything_ you do."

He took a step towards me, his expression scornful.

"And you know this…how? I had no idea you were such an _expert_ on my habits, Granger. Have you been bribing the house elves so you can go through my garbage?" he said mockingly.

My cheeks burned.

"You'd hardly be worth the effort."

"I feel the same way about Pansy, as it happens. But why do you care? Last I checked, you two weren't on the _best_ of terms, were you?"

I clenched my teeth.

"I was just…curious," I said, refusing to look at him. "You seem so bitter when you talk about her. It made me wonder."

A long silence followed my pronouncement. I took the opportunity to study him, noticing with some detachment that he wasn't wearing gloves. His hands were large and pale, with neatly trimmed fingernails; he had his sleeves folded back, the powder blue pulse at the base of his wrist clearly visible.

"Have you ever listened to someone describe you—someone close to you, I mean—and thought to yourself…well, _shit_, that can't be right," he said, laughing self-consciously.

I went very, very still.

"Yes," I whispered.

"And everything they said was just kind of like—well, all the things that you secretly suspected might be true, but hoped weren't, and it just…_should_ have been a fucking wake-up call, yeah? But it wasn't. It was just a laundry list of everything wrong with you, and it was the fucking _truth_."

He was looking at his feet, his posture aggressive.

"_That's_ what she did," he said, the muscles in his neck corded and thick and angry. "And I don't even think she meant to. But—still, she was supposed to know better, right? She was supposed to fucking see past it. And she didn't."

He let out a long sigh.

"I heard you and Weasley, you know. The day you broke up. I heard what he said to you."

"Oh," I said, my voice cracking, remembering how I'd run into him, blindly, self-consciously.

"I remember thinking everything he said was fucking _spot-on_, you know? Like, God, he's finally coming to his fucking senses and calling you out on all your _shit_—your condescending, pretentious _shit_. But then it happened to me, right, and my very first thought was of you and Weasley and that day. That conversation."

His nose was cold, the tip turning pink.

"And you know what I thought? I thought—well, fuck, maybe there's more to her than that. Maybe he just didn't get it."

I caught my breath.

"What do you look like, Granger? When you first wake up? When your hair is messy and your voice is sleepy and you haven't even showered yet? When there's nothing separating you from the rest of the world except—except fucking _perception_—what happens to you? Do you act different or taste different or—or _what_?"

His eyes bore into mine, oddly frantic, and I wondered what I was supposed to say.

"I'm…" I trailed off, swallowing. "I'm petulant. I always want to sleep more than I should. I'm selfish and utterly uninterested in anything besides my toothbrush. My skin is pasty and my lips are dry and there's nothing pretty about me. I—I snap at people and I roll my eyes if there's a bird chirping just the tiniest bit too loud outside." I grimaced. "I'm not a whole lot of fun in the morning, am I?"

Hi tilted his head back, squinting at the stars.

"I think I might like that girl," he said simply. "If I got to know her."

"I don't want you to like me," I lied, grasping at any chance to make things normal, make the world stop spinning backwards-but, oh, why hadn't anyone told me how much fun it was to get lost somewhere new? To take the long way, to throw away the map, to ignore the sensible voice in my head telling me that I'd taken a wrong turn?

"I know," he replied, staring down at me.

"I should—I should get back to the castle," I mumbled, silently screaming at him to stop me.

"You should," he agreed.

But I didn't move, I was stuck, and then I was alarmed, because I realized that he didn't need to stop me.

"I should," I repeated. "But I don't want to."

And then he smiled, and I was wrecked.

If I could just keep myself from falling, keep myself on my feet, it would all be okay—was it natural, though, to want to touch him so very badly that I felt my skin tingle—ache—_tremble_ with anticipation? Was it normal to feel my heart start to shake when I noticed how close he was standing? I wanted to take a few moments and stop, stop and count to ten, let my brain catch up, because this couldn't be a good idea, what was about to happen, but it had to be, because it felt so inevitable, it felt like there was no turning back—it felt fucking _real_.

He kissed me slowly.

He kissed me gently.

He kissed me, and I went blind, deaf, and stupid.

And then he pulled away, and all I could think was—_Ron never kissed me like that_.

He stared at me, his face a mask of confusion.

"I didn't mean to do that," he blurted out.

"I know," I replied, swallowing, closing my eyes.

Except maybe he had meant to do it.

There was so much more I wanted to say—I wanted to ask him if he'd felt it, if he'd felt the rightness of it, the brittle fragility, the way it had changed everything, if he'd even noticed; I wanted to tell him that it—he—_we_ had been explosive, we'd made _breathing_ seem laughably fucking unnecessary; and I wanted to ask him to do it again, to keep going, to never stop, but I was so scared to open my mouth, so scared he wouldn't hear me.

And in the end, it didn't matter what I wanted to say.

By the time I opened my eyes again, he was gone.

OOO


	9. VIII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

It was hard not to look at him; look _for_ him.

I sat at breakfast, shoveling eggs and toast and tepid tea into my mouth, and pretended that I couldn't feel his gaze—cold and unwavering—boring into the back of my neck. I took studious, diligent notes during Charms, and ignored the way he watched me, his expression almost painfully guarded. I left the library, headed for bed, and acted indifferent when I saw him waiting for me, his arms crossed over a wrinkled black sweater.

"I'm not fucking invisible, Granger," he called after me.

I stopped walking, noticing that the hallway was empty—except for us.

"Of course you're not," I replied politely.

"Turn around," he murmured.

I didn't.

"No, thank you," I returned, sniffing.

I thought he might touch me, might _make_ me face him, and my heartbeat stuttered.

"Why—never mind. Whatever. I suppose talking to you like this at least provides _somewhat_ of a pleasant view, so I'll get—"

"Shut _up_."

"Don't think I will. It's kind of hard to take you seriously right now."

I bit my lip.

"I don't want to look at you," I ground out.

"Will you _please_ turn the fuck around?"

I couldn't, though.

"I can't believe you just said _please_."

"I have something to say to you. I'd rather not say it to the back of your fucking head," he grunted.

"Too bad."

I heard him let out a frustrated sigh.

"This is ridiculous."

"Not as ridiculous as what you did last night."

"Granger. I don't mean to be indelicate, but—"

"Yes, you do," I snorted. "You _always_ do. You _thrive_ on being crass and offensive and—and making me uncomfortable. It's what you _do_."

"Will you just fucking turn around?" he demanded, impatience marring his perfect, patrician drawl.

"I don't want to," I said, picking at my fingernails.

"What are you so mad about? All I'm trying to do is _talk_ to you. Don't females usually _like_ that sort of thing?"

"I'm not mad," I said, clenching my jaw.

But I was. I was mad at him for leaving me alone with my thoughts, for allowing me to wonder if he was more than just a bully; I was mad at him for perpetuating that stupidly unbelievable rumor, for letting people think it was true, for kissing me again—a real kiss, a kiss that had left me shaking and speechless.

I was mad because it wasn't fair, and it wasn't okay, and nothing was ever going to come of it, and if he'd just bothered to _wait_, if he'd just let me _say something_, then maybe I wouldn't have realized how impossible it was, and maybe I wouldn't have woken up that morning and heard a bird chirp too loud and remembered to hate him.

"Yes, you are. You're angry, and I _get it_, alright? I get why. I—I had a bad night, and—well, it's not really important—I just wanted to say sorry," he burst out quickly. "I'm sorry. Okay?"

I swallowed, a dull sort of disappointment cloud my mind.

"You're apologizing."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes. Yes, I'm apologizing."

"Why?"

I was glad, then, that I hadn't turned around; I was numb—frozen, really—and the muscles in my face felt soft, crumbling, as if they might disintegrate.

"Why am I apologizing?"

"Yes," I said loudly, finally spinning around. "_Why_ are you apologizing? You _never_ apologize, not to anyone, and _certainly_ not to me—so why now? What happened to you?"

He was standing farther away than I thought he would be, and the space between us seemed too big, too empty; our eyes met, my stomach lurched, and he looked surprised—no, he looked startled, stunned, and I couldn't fathom why.

"Because I couldn't bring myself to last night," he replied slowly. "And—I don't know. Isn't that what I _should_ do? Apologize?"

"You didn't say sorry after you kissed me before," I pointed out, tightly lacing my fingers together.

"That was different," he said without thinking.

I was quiet, my tongue thick and clumsy in my mouth.

"What?" he snapped.

"What—" I stopped, clearing my throat. "What was different about it?"

He didn't immediately respond, and the air around us grew heavy with tension; the hallway suddenly felt smaller, darker, more intimate, and the candles lining the walls seemed to sputter—with indignation or expectation, I didn't know.

"It was different because I fucking _meant_ _it_, Granger. I _meant_ to kiss you, I _wanted_ to kiss you, there wasn't a fucking_ audience_ watching, waiting to applaud me for it later, and—" He broke off, chest heaving, and grimaced.

"And…you need to apologize for that?"

"No. I would never apologize for that." He studied me, nostrils flared. "I'm apologizing because I didn't mean to—I didn't want to kiss _you_. I wanted to kiss some other girl, some girl that wasn't even _there_. Some girl that isn't you. I wanted you to be someone else, and—well. I'm sorry for that."

I flinched.

"Oh. I—I didn't realize. Who is she?"

"No, that's not what I—it isn't anyone in particular," he explained tiredly. "I just—you were listening, you know? You'd finally stopped fucking _talking_. You were—you were _different_. You weren't the annoying little bitch I've been fighting with for six years, yeah? You were someone else, someone—."

"Why are you telling me this?" I interrupted, dropping my bag and sliding to the floor, hearing Parvati's vapid, high-pitched voice telling me: _You're…not the same, Hermione. No one really knows you. Not anymore._

"Who else am I going to tell? Someone who actually _knows_ me? That'd be a fun conversation," he said bitterly, sitting down next to me, our backs against the wall. "Besides, we're stuck together now. We're _in love_ or something, remember?"

I looked at him, at his rigid, unhappy face, and felt an unexpected surge of pity.

"That's mostly your fault, you know."

"I know."

"Does your father even care? About our alleged affair, I mean."

He glanced away.

"Hasn't mentioned it," he shrugged indifferently.

I put a tentative, shaky hand on his shoulder, thoughtlessly, carelessly; I felt his body grow rigid, the skin under his shirt get warm.

And it occurred to me that I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel _him_.

I was dizzy, then, my normally capable brain dissolving, _melting_, and he was sitting too close, he was _facing_ me, our breath was swirling, mixing, _fusing_, and it was hot, and—

I heard footsteps, and the moment was lost, broken, the pieces floating farther and farther away, just out of reach. Pansy rounded the corner, stopping in her tracks when she saw us.

"Oh," she squeaked, eyes wide.

"Pansy," Malfoy said, scrambling to his feet. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"I left a book in the library," she replied, her cheeks red. "How _cute_ are the two of you, though? Cuddling on the floor. Like muggles. Sharing secrets, Draco?"

He clenched his teeth

"No," he said pointedly, glaring at her. "No secrets to tell."

"Well, _that_ can't be right," she sneered. "The Draco _I_ knew _always_ had something to hide."

"No," he said again, an edge to his voice. "He didn't."

She smirked down at me.

"Don't worry, Granger. He'll tell you eventually."

And then she giggled, prancing down the hallway, as I stared after her.

"Fucking _bitch_," he swore, slamming his fist into his palm.

I slowly stood up, wondering what had just happened.

"That was…_odd_," I ventured.

"Fuck off," he snarled.

I jerked back

"No, _you_ fuck off," I shot back. "What just happened?"

"Nothing _happened_," he said. "You're just getting in the way."

"Of _what_?"

"None of your fucking business, Granger."

"But I'm your make-believe girlfriend, _Draco_," I said mockingly. "Don't you want to tell me your secrets?"

"No!" he shouted angrily. "No, I do _not_ want to _tell_ _you my secrets_. I don't want to fucking tell you _anything_. I don't want to talk to you, and I don't want to _touch_ _you_, and I don't want to fucking kiss you. Fuck _off_, already."

An icy tendril of regret twisted itself around my spine.

"Fuck you," I whispered, shoving him.

"You _wish_," he hissed as I passed him.

I paused, shaking my head.

"No. No, I don't."

OOO


	10. IX

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER NINE**

The next day I ate breakfast with Ron and Harry. I ignored the stifled, confused whispering that was slowly filling the room and deliberately buttered a muffin, wordlessly accepting a platter of bacon from Lavender as she studied me.

"So…how are things?" Ron asked awkwardly, taking a gulp of orange juice and exchanging a bewildered glance with Harry.

"Fantastic," I lied, shaking my head. "No, that's not true. Honestly? It's been shit without you two."

Harry shot me a lopsided smile, his glasses glinting in the harsh morning light. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall, blond figure abruptly stand up and leave.

"Well, you _have_ been spending a ton of time with Malfoy," he pointed out. "That couldn't have been very much fun."

"_Harry_!" Lavender interjected, swatting his hand. "_Don't_! They've just broken up, don't be so—so _insensitive_!"

Harry, Ron, and I all looked at her, mouths open, before laughing. She turned red, pressing her lips together and staring at Ron in dismay, but he didn't notice.

"That reminds me," Harry whispered in my ear, "we really should talk about what we've been planning for Malfoy, Ron's had a brilliant idea—"

"_Harry_!" I cried, exasperated. "Stop it, will you? Just let it go."

"No way," Ron said between mouthfuls of oatmeal. "That prick's had it coming for _years_."

"Well—yeah," I admitted. "But—"

"Just let us handle it, 'Mione," Ron interrupted reassuringly.

"I don't think—" I began to protest, stopping when I realized they were no longer listening.

But Ron continued to grin at me, chuckling at a quiet joke Harry made—and I suddenly felt sick.

OOO

She came after me before dinner, slender arms wrapped around her torso.

"Why are you _doing_ this, Hermione?" she demanded angrily.

"Doing _what_?" I asked, taken aback.

"Just—just _coming back_," she replied, waving a dismissive hand in my direction. "Just like that. You abandoned him—_them_, I mean—for months, you know, and just when things are going so well, you have to—to rush back in and ruin it."

"Lavender," I said patiently, "that's not really what's happening. Ron is really happy with you—"

"I don't even know what's so _special_ about you," she continued as if I hadn't spoken. "You're not that pretty. Or fun. Or—or _anything_. First it was Viktor Krum, then Ron, then _Malfoy_—how you managed that, I've no idea, but he's not exactly a _prize_, is he, so I guess he doesn't count—and now you're taking Ron back again, on—on a _whim_, I just don't _understand_—"

"Lavender!" I interrupted loudly. "I am _not_ taking Ron back."

She blinked, wrinkling her nose.

"You're not?"

"Of _course_ not," I replied, indignant. "Do you not remember how horrible he was to me after we broke up? The things he said? _Why_ would I want him back?"

"Because—well, because you're upset about Malfoy," she said, still eyeing me suspiciously.

I sighed.

"Ron and I aren't getting back together, okay? You don't have anything to worry about. Remember how annoying he thought I was when we dated? Yeah? He couldn't stand me. Was _always_ comparing me to you," I rambled.

"Really?" she asked timidly. "Oh, _good_, because we made love, you know, just the other night, and, well, I don't think it went very well—it was just so _messy_—but I don't know, he didn't say anything, not really, and I was hoping you could ask him—"

"You—you want me to find out what he—what he _thought about it_?" I squeaked.

"Well—yes. He'd tell you, I'm sure of it. He used to tell you _everything_, didn't he?"

"Why not ask him yourself?" I managed to say.

She blanched.

"That would be _humiliating_. Can you even _imagine_?" She shuddered.

I furrowed my brow.

"Um—why, exactly? I've never done it, but I assume that if you're comfortable enough to do—do _that_, then you can talk about—"

"You've never _done it_? Not with anyone? But—I thought—you and Malfoy—everyone said—" she stammered.

"No."

"Oh," she said crisply, her voice short. She straightened her shoulders. "_Oh_."

She gave me a cold, practiced smile, and sniffed.

"Well, never mind, then," she simpered, her eyes chilly. "I'll just have Parvati do it. Have a good night, Hermione."

She flounced off, her posture perfect, as I remained in the foyer, puzzled by what had just transpired.

"Hey, are you coming to dinner?" Ron called to me from the doorway. I started, wondering how long he'd been standing there.

"No," I said, turning towards the stairs. "I'm not hungry."

"Oh," he said, clearly disappointed. "You sure?"

"I'm sure, Ron."

And then I went to the Astronomy Tower.

OOO

He was there—of _course_ he was there—but I'd hoped for that, hadn't I?

"Did you tell someone that we broke up?" I asked, clearing my throat as I moved to stand next to him at the window.

"That's what you wanted, isn't it?" he drawled.

"No," I replied tartly. "No, what I _wanted_ was for no one to think we were together in the first place."

"Well, it's a little too late for that," he said, rolling his eyes. "_Really_ too late."

"Right."

An awkward silence fell and I glanced at his face, at his pristine, pale skin, at his precisely curved lips—and I shivered.

"What do you want?" he asked tiredly.

"I—" I started to answer before stopping. What _did_ I want? What was I doing there? "I don't know, actually."

He watched me for a second, eyes narrowed, and smirked.

"Missed me, did you?"

I didn't immediately respond, choosing instead to stare resolutely out the window; it was that time of the year when the days were just starting to get longer, the sunsets more pronounced, the colors more vibrant, and I thought dispassionately about how pretty the lake looked, reflecting back the deep pink and the dusty orange of the sky.

"You're the only person in this entire castle who knows the truth and—and isn't trying to tell me what I should _do_ about it," I burst out, clenching my fists. "Or—you _did_, but that hardly counts, because…"

I trailed off, wondering why, exactly, it _didn't_ count.

"They should know better," I continued. "I was so relieved when they believed me, you know? That they didn't think the worst of me, despite all the rumors. But now I wonder if that had less to do with me and more to do with—with finding another excuse to hate you. It _suited_ them to believe me, and that's somehow worse than if they'd thought we actually _were_…"

"Fucking," he finished casually, tapping his fingers against the stone ledge and leaning forward.

I winced.

"Yeah. That."

"Maybe they just care about you," he offered, arching a brow.

I snorted, twisting my lips.

"_That's_ it," I said bitterly.

And that was when he snapped.

"Oh, for the love of—just—just _wake up_, Granger! You have friends who fucking _love you_, friends who would do almost anything to protect you, and do you have any fucking _concept_ of how infuriating it is to sit here and listen to you _whine_ about that? Do you? You—you're _beautiful_, and you're _smart_, and you have the Boy Who Fucking Lived wanting to fight all your battles for you—"

He broke off, voice hoarse.

"I spent my whole life being told that I was better than everyone else—that I was incapable of fucking anything up, _ever_. Nothing was my fault. Nothing I did was wrong. And I believed it, too, because my parents were perfect, and always right, and they wouldn't lie to me, would they? But then I got here, and wondered why everyone was worshipping some skinny little twit in glasses and not _me_. It used to keep me up at night, you know, because I just _didn't get it_.

"And so I've spent almost seven whole years being blindly, irrationally fucking jealous of him; of you; even of that incompetent fucking redhead you all seem to find so hilarious. "

"I don't—"

"_No_," he snarled. "It's _my _turn to talk. The three of you just—just _bothered_ me, you know? I hated Potter more than you, though, for whatever that's worth. Until we grew up. Until it became obvious to me that the reason everyone was following him around and not me was because I—well, I wasn't so wonderful, was I?"

He swallowed, and I watched, dazed, as he turned his head slowly, _so_ slowly, towards me.

"And then Snape found us that night, and I had this incredible opportunity to fuck with you just sitting in my lap, really, and of _course_ I took it—and…absolutely fucking nothing has gone right since. _Nothing_."

I inhaled sharply.

I wanted to kiss him more than I wanted to breathe—which should have surprised me, but it didn't, not even a tiny bit, and I thought, weakly, of how cruel he'd been just the night before, how little time had really passed; it felt like an eternity, though, it felt like years ago, because the boy standing in front of me wasn't the same, he was different now, he was insightful and honest and—and so much more than just a bully, and—

"And then at breakfast this morning I saw you sitting together again, for the first time in ages, and—and I lost my shit completely," he confessed, staring down at me. "I had the most awful epiphany, too, because I hated Potter more than ever—which I honestly didn't think was possible—and I realized that it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with you."

He reached for me, then, placing his hands delicately on my shoulders, his eyes boring into mine—

"I hated him—_both_ of them—no, I fucking hated everyone at that goddamn table," he said, his grip growing tighter. "Because you'd walked into that room and _chosen_ to sit there. They got to look at you, and talk to you—and I didn't. And then, bizarrely, I remembered when I kissed you the other night, and how all I wanted to do—"

"Please stop talking now," I pleaded.

And he did.

He kissed me cautiously at first, his lips soft and hesitant; but then I made a sound—nothing more than a small sigh of satisfaction—and he opened his mouth, his breath warm and moist and delicious, and I pulled him closer—and everything changed.

His fingers were buried in my hair, his tongue was tangling rather ferociously with my own, and I felt a quick stab of heat pulse through my chest, spreading, no, _invading_, and then he was backing me up, propelling me towards a wall—had he picked me up, I couldn't tell, I felt too weightless—and pushed his body against mine, his hips nestled firmly against my lower abdomen—

And then his hands were roaming quickly, furiously, squeezing, rubbing, trailing like liquid fire over my skin, and his lips were on my throat, my ears, my collar bone, his fingers grappling with the buttons on my shirt, and my skirt had hiked itself up, my thighs were exposed, they were creamy white against the black of his pants, and I could see his thumb curve under the edge of my underwear, hear him groan, and then—and then—

"Oh," I whispered, stunned, shaking, my face pressed into his neck.

He stepped back, letting my skirt fall back down, smoothing out the pleats for me.

"_That_ was what I wanted to do."

And all I could do was smile.

OOO


	11. X

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TEN**

The next morning, I waited until everyone had left for breakfast before I slid out of bed.

There was something so enchanting about having a secret; a _real_ secret, the kind that you don't plan for, the kind that sneaks up on you and turns your entire life inside out and makes you breathlessly desperate to keep it all to yourself.

Because I didn't want to share him. I didn't want to face the rest of the world and have them study me, notice a difference, question and judge and wonder—what if they guessed? What if I glanced at the Slytherin table for just a second too long—and what if he stared back at me with that peculiar sort of intensity that made my knees weak and every last synapse in my brain misfire—what then? What would I do?

I'd weathered the gossip of the previous few weeks—just barely—by reminding myself that it wasn't true, it wasn't real, and it hadn't happened. Dating him, sleeping with him—they were things that had been impossible, things that had seemed laughably fucking absurd.

But now—now, what would I say when an obnoxious third-year cornered me in the bathroom and asked me about our first kiss? What would I do when I heard Parvati snickering as I got out of the shower?

It had been _easy_, I now realized, when it hadn't been true.

But something remarkable had happened the night before. Something that I was hesitant to label, something that shouldn't have made sense, something that had left me quivering, dumbstruck, with cluttered thoughts and useless, liquid muscles. Something frightening and inexplicable that I'd waited my entire life to feel—and it had happened with _him_.

Not with Ron. Not with Harry. Not even with Neville fucking Longbottom.

But with Malfoy.

I thought about the rumors I'd so studiously ignored—how, as they ran their course, he'd slowly turned into—well, not a friend, not exactly, but something rather _less_ than an enemy.

I sighed and pulled on a sweater, bunching up the sleeves.

"Oh—_there_ you are, Hermione," someone trilled from behind me.

Lavender stood in the doorway, clutching a neatly folded piece of parchment.

"Lavender," I exclaimed. "Were you looking for me?"

"Malfoy—_sorry_, you must think of him as Draco now, yeah?—well, anyway, _Draco_—that is just _so_ odd to say out loud, isn't it?—slipped this to me on the way into breakfast and asked me to give it to you," she twittered, eyes bright with excitement.

"_What_?" I bleated, my heart racing.

"I know!" she squealed. "It's so _romantic_—passing you secret love notes and pining from a distance and—_oh,_ I'm so _jealous_!"

My mouth flapped open as she waved the parchment at me.

"Aren't you going to _read_ it?"

I reached for the letter, hand trembling, and opened it:

_I had an interesting dream about you last night, Granger. Meet me in front of the lake at ten._

He hadn't signed it, of course. And his handwriting was surprisingly neat, the letters completely uniform; no ink splotches at all.

"Well?" she prodded, her cheeks pink. "What does it say?"

"Like you didn't already look," I pointed out, reaching for my bag.

"I might have been a teensy bit curious," she hedged, holding open the door.

I laughed, unbothered; he would have known that she would read it.

"Are you going to go?"

"I'm not sure," I replied, carefully ducking through the portrait hole.

"How can you _not_?" she gasped.

I shrugged, choosing not to reply.

_Of course I'm going to go_, I thought inwardly. _But she doesn't need to know that_.

OOO

It was 9:45, and I was sneaking through the empty Transfiguration corridor when I realized that I was being followed.

"Who's there?" I demanded, glancing over my shoulder. "I can hear you, you know."

"Relax, Granger," a female voice muttered. "I wasn't following you on _purpose_. We just happen to be heading in the same direction."

Pansy Parkinson appeared from around the corner.

"Was it necessary to be so—so _furtive_ about it?" I grumbled.

"I'm a Slytherin," she scoffed. "That's sort of what we _do_. Didn't Draco explain that to you? Or do the two of you not do a lot of talking now that you've broken up?"

I wrinkled my nose.

"I'm sorry—was that meant to upset me?" I asked sweetly. "It's so hard to tell with you sometimes."

"I knew he'd get tired of you eventually," she continued, ignoring me.

"Ah, so you _and_ Trelawney can predict the future!"

She shot me an ugly look.

"You have nothing in common with him," she persisted. "I mean—I bet he didn't even invite you to Hogsmeade this weekend. Is that why you—"

She broke off, studying me.

"Oh, my _God_," she jeered. "He didn't even _tell _you, did he?"

"Tell me _what_?"

"I _did_ think it was rather strange that you didn't care," she said. "But I chalked it up to you hating Potter now. Although, now that I think about it—I don't know _why_ I believed him when he said he'd told you. I guess neither of us can trust him now, hmm?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Fine. I'll ask. What are you talking about?"

She giggled.

"Poor little mudblood. You have no idea, do you? He's getting Marked on Saturday."

Without missing a beat, I snorted.

"Seriously?" I chuckled. "That's the best you could do?"

Her jaw dropped a fraction of an inch as she floundered for a response.

"You—you don't believe me?"

"Um, no," I replied, smirking. "I don't. Do you _really_ think I didn't notice all those hints you dropped the other night? I've been waiting for you to do this for days. Besides—you're spiteful and stupid—it's not exactly a stretch to assume that you're a liar as well."

Her face hardened.

"That's your problem, you know," she sneered. "You think _everyone_ is stupid. I have some news for you, though—you aren't the only one who can be clever."

"I never said that I was," I retorted calmly. "But I _did_ say that you were stupid. And I'm rarely wrong."

"How _dare_ you—"

"Have a good night, Pansy," I said, nodding politely as I continued down the hallway.

But by the time I reached the castle grounds at ten past ten, I had remembered to be nervous. He was standing at the edge of the lake, his hair almost silver in the moonlight; I approached him slowly, unsure of what to say. He heard my footsteps, though, turning to watch me with an inscrutable expression—and I stumbled. Reflexively, he threw out his arms to catch me, and I looked down, dazed at the sight of my wrists in his hands.

Neither of us spoke, and as the silence dragged on, I started to notice things: the way the breeze was unseasonably warm as it curled across my skin, the way the water lapped hungrily at our feet, mere inches away.

"I'm sorry I'm late—" I began, but his lips were on mine before I could even get the words out, my arms wound around his neck—and I forgot, then, what I was even going to say.

"Where have you been?" he whispered into my neck, pushing my sweater up, up, up, over my head—

"I was—um, talking with—with—" I stammered as he loosened his tie, ripped it off, unbuttoned his shirt—all without looking away, his gaze unblinking, unmoving.

"It doesn't fucking matter," he interrupted, his hands moving to my hips, under my skirt, kneading, clutching, his mouth locked on my shoulder as his breath quickened, and I threw my head back, giving in, falling, losing myself, locking my legs around his waist, pressing up and closer and up and _oh, my God_, why were there _clothes _in the way—until I heard the most awful sound:

"_Hermione_?"

It was Ron—what was he _doing_ there—he was gaping at me, he was appalled—

"You—I don't—_Malfoy_—you said—I can't—_you fucking lied to me_?" he burst out, brushing off a small, comforting hand; Lavender's hand.

"I didn't lie to you," I said quickly. "This just—well—it just sort of _happened_—"

"I can't believe you," he said savagely. "You're—_Malfoy_? Seriously?"

"No, no, no—Ron, stop, it isn't what you think—"

"Really? Because what I _think_ is that you're a—a—a liar and a _tramp_. Sound about right?" he hissed, ears red.

Malfoy had been standing quietly behind me, watching the scene unfold, until then.

"Watch it," he said sharply.

"You can't be fucking _serious_!" Ron exploded. "Bloody hell, Hermione. I—we were together for two _years_, without so much as a—as a _hint_ of—of—well, anything—and after five minutes you're ready to shag—fucking _Malfoy_? I can't even—everything people said about you is _true_, you _are_ a—a—_slut_—"

Malfoy stiffened.

"That's it, Weasley," he said fiercely, stepping forward. "Why don't you fuck off back to Gryffindor? Not sure if you noticed, but we were _sort of_ in the middle of something."

"You fucking bastard—" Ron bellowed, lunging.

"_Ron, no_!" Lavender screeched, grabbing his elbow and yanking him back. "Let it _go_! He's—not—_worth it_!"

He stopped moving, breathing heavily, and eyed me with disgust.

"You're right," he spat. "And neither is _she_."

And then they were gone, leaving a profoundly unsettling silence in their wake.

"You—you did this," I finally said, turning on him, stunned. "_You_."

"No, I didn't," he replied bluntly. "I swear—"

"No, no, _no_," I whispered. "I can't believe I—what was I _thinking_—I just—oh, _God_, I'm stupid, I'm actually fucking stupid, I fell for—for—"

He clenched his jaw.

"For what? What did you fall for?"

I glared at him, remembering Pansy's words from earlier: _"He didn't even _tell _you, did he?" _She'd known, too, then; had probably been laughing at me right from the start.

"I fell for _you_. And you fucking used me. And lied to me. And—and—" I let out a harsh bark of laughter. "I let you _touch_ me. I let you—I was going to let you—I thought you were fucking _different_. I thought you'd _changed_. Can you imagine? _You_—changing?"

"_Shut up_," he said, nostrils flared. "I didn't _do_ anything! You really think I wouldn't be—be fucking _rubbing it in_, if I had? If I'd _planned_ this?"

I snorted, refusing to answer.

"Granger—_Hermione_," he implored, reaching for my hand. "Don't do this. _Please_. You—you _know me_ now—you—"

"You're right," I interrupted, shaking my head. "I _do_ know you. I know that you called me names—_awful_ names—for seven years, and made sure that I knew you were _better than me_, and that you lied to the entire goddamn school about _fucking _me, just to—to _what_, make my friends hate me—or, or to prove that you could—who really fucking knows—and I know that you're so jealous of Harry and Ron you can barely stand to _look _at them, and that you're _cruel_—senselessly cruel, just because you can be, just to remind everyone that you're bloody well _still here_—because don't kid yourself, there's nothing else about you worth remembering, is there?"

I stopped talking, suddenly, abruptly, shutting my eyes against the sight of his face—so pale and so tense and so still that I was sure it would break into a million tiny pieces if he moved.

"You know other things about me, too, though, don't you?" he responded, his voice dangerously low. "You know what makes me smile, and what my hands do when they're under your skirt, and what my mouth feels like against your skin. _You know what I taste like_, don't you? When I kiss you?"

I swallowed, angrily meeting his smoldering, furious gaze.

"I wouldn't, though, if I'd known you were just waiting for someone to catch us," I bit out.

"_Fuck_!" he shouted, bunching his hand into a fist. "How do you even _believe_ what you're saying? You honestly think I—I fucking _seduced_ you, or something? You think I sat around and decided that—oh, yeah, the easiest way to fuck with Potter will be to—_I know_, how have I not thought of it before—to somehow get into the virgin fucking Mary's pants and mastermind some fiendishly clever, emotionally sadistic plan on the _off-chance_ we'd get caught by Weasley? _Seriously_?"

"Not really all that clever when you put it that way," I retorted stonily.

"Don't do this, Granger," he said hoarsely.

"Do _what_? Realize how _insane_ I must have been to think that you were anything _more_ than—than—what you _are_?"

He observed me for a long, hollow moment and then straightened his shoulders, taking a measured step away from me.

"Right," he said coldly, clearing his throat. "Well, I guess you've caught me. Or something."

I jerked in surprise.

"Oh—"

"That's what you want to hear, yeah? You want me to _admit_ that it's all been a game? That I've been using you? That when I kissed you, all I thought about was making sure it lasted long enough to get caught?" he demanded.

His words tore into me like bullets, lightning fast and deadly accurate, and I wondered, dimly, why they hurt so much.

"_Well_?" he roared, arms outstretched. "_Isn't it_? Don't you want me to just _confess_ that I don't care, never have, never fucking _will_—that every conversation was planned, scripted, _designed_ to get you to drop your guard—all so I could—what was it I was doing, again? Oh, yes—break up your precious, _precious _friendships? Well? _Isn't this what you want to fucking hear_, _Granger_?"

I flinched, turning away from him.

"Fucking _answer me_!" he yelled roughly. "Did I get it all right? Yeah? Is there anything else I need to—"

"Stop it!" I cried. "Just—just _stop it_."

He clamped his mouth shut, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'm done," he finally said. "Fucking _done_."

And he must have meant it, too, because before I could formulate a reply, wrap my mind around what to think—what to say—what to _do_, he had spun on his heel and started stomping back towards the castle.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, too late.

The thing was—I wasn't sure if I _was_ sorry. Logic and reason were screaming at me that I'd done the right thing, said the right thing, _believed_ the right thing; but something small and hard and sharp had burrowed a hole in my gut, leaving a gaping, vicious emptiness that felt strangely like guilt, and I was certain, then, that I'd made an unfixable mistake, that I'd broken something unimaginably fragile, something priceless, something irreplaceable—

_N_o_._

_ No. _

I sat down, sliding my knees under my chin, and froze. There, lying on the grass, was a neatly folded piece of parchment.

_I had an interesting dream about you last night, Malfoy. Meet me in front of the lake at ten._

I stared and stared and stared, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the hapless, helpless letter—no, what had Lavender called it?—a love note.

"I'm so sorry," I said again.

_Too late, too late, too late_.

OOO


	12. XI

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

I sat beside the lake—legs crossed, hand clutching that ratty piece of paper—the rest of the night. My mind was blank, wiped clean, as if someone had taken an eraser and viciously scratched away all my thoughts, all my feelings, all my memories, hoping that maybe I'd forget something important, something useful. Was it self-preservation, though? Did I just want to pretend that the last few hours hadn't happened?

Because if they hadn't, then tomorrow would be okay; tomorrow would mean a Malfoy who didn't hate me, one who would say something sharp and wry and sweet and _perfect_ before he kissed me. He would look at me and smile, slowly, delectably, and he would still be different, better, and there would still be hope—that delicate, wispy ghost of a thing—that we could work.

But had I ever even believed that? Wanted that?

The sun was already starting to rise, glinting across the water, golden yellow, bright orange, the mysterious half-light of dawn like something out of fairytale. It occurred to me that I hadn't slept, not at all, and that I should go up to bed.

I stood up, wincing—my muscles ached, my skin was greasy, and I remembered, abruptly, what Lavender had done.

Frowning, I made my way back to the castle, reaching our dormitory just as the other girls were sleepily fastening the buttons of their shirts. They eyed me curiously.

"Aren't you _freezing_, Hermione?" Parvati asked, yawning.

I glanced down at my clothes—rumpled plaid skirt, grass-stained black tights, and a wrinkled white Oxford—_oh_. My sweater was still lying crumpled up on the ground, wasn't it? I'd never retrieved it after Malfoy had ripped it off.

"I must have forgotten a jacket," I mumbled, blushing. "Where's Lavender?"

"I'm right here," she said brightly, coming out of the bathroom in a cloud of flower-scented perfume.

"Breakfast, then?" Parvati said, looking at her.

"Oh, can I have a—a quick word? It won't take long," I assured her cheerfully.

She blinked, smiling cautiously, and hung back, letting everyone rush down the stairs without her.

"Of course," she said, shrugging. "If this is about Ron, I'd be more than happy to talk to him for you, I'm _sure_ he'll come around eventually—"

"Will you seriously just—just _shut up_? For five fucking seconds?"

Her eyes widened.

"_You're_ one to talk, Hermione," she stammered. "Ron says he used to see how long he could stop listening to you before you noticed—his record was _eleven minutes_."

I scraped my hair back into a loose, messy bun.

"Hey, Lav—remember that time he _dumped you_ so he could go out with me? Remember that? Wasn't it just _so much fun_? He didn't even tell you, right? He just started avoiding you?"

Her cheeks went pink.

"He was just _confused_. It _happens_."

"For two years? I know that Ron can be dim, but come on, give him _some_ credit."

She sniffed, turning away and reaching for the doorknob.

"Why did you do it, Lavender?" I demanded.

She froze.

"Do what?" she replied stiffly.

"Don't play dumb."

She whipped her head around, incredulous.

"Don't—don't play dumb?" she repeated, her voice shrill. "After you've spent _seven years_ talking down to me? Treating me like a—like an _imbecile_? I still remember, you know, the day we met. I mispronounced some silly Latin word that no one else cared about—we were _ten_ for God's sake—and you just _looked_ at me, like—like I was an insect, and you corrected me, and I didn't know if I should thank you or not, it was just so bloody _ridiculous_, and then when I turned away to talk to Parvati and you thought I wasn't looking, you—you _rolled your eyes_, like I'd done something _stupid_, like—like I _was_ stupid, you'd already decided, and you never changed your mind, did you?"

I opened my mouth to reply—and discovered that I was speechless, that I'd finally run out of things to say.

"I know what people say about me, you know," she continued, her nose scrunched up. "I know that they think I'm rubbish at—well, at everything. I know that no one takes me seriously—especially Ron. Especially _you_."

She was facing me again, her hands pressed together.

"I never meant—" I started to respond, but she cut me off.

"Yes, you did," she snorted, shaking her head. "You _always_ meant to. And I always wanted to warn you—to not think _everyone_ is stupid, just because they aren't you. To not think you're _always_ right, because _no one_ is always right, and it was bound to—to come back and haunt you."

She swallowed, smiling grimly.

"That's why I knew I could trick you last night. You don't notice anything I do or say—you never have—and you could never even imagine there was more to me than—than—"

"Than a hairbrush and rather pathetic obsession with Ron," I finished cruelly, letting my jaw jut forward.

"Exactly," she said, nodding. "It's as if it never occurred to you that someone else was capable of being clever."

Pansy Parkinson had said the same thing to me, hadn't she?

I watched Lavender, trying to understand how I'd missed this—this vindictive, manipulative side of her that wasn't as deeply buried as it maybe should have been.

"I'd hardly call you _clever_," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "_Jealous_ comes to mind, though—and so does _desperate_—and—and really, this is a funny one, I'm sure you'll appreciate it—_fucking stupid_. Sound about right? Jealous, desperate, and stupid. Good for you. _Really_."

She sneered.

"You really don't get it, do you? You think you can have _everything_—that you can shag Malfoy on the side and lie to Ron and Harry about it and it will all just turn out _perfect_ because—well, _you're_ perfect, aren't you? _It always works out_ _for you_. And you can do whatever you please, _whenever_ you please—I mean, God, you spent three months _ignoring them_, and all you practically do is—is snap your hideous, un-manicured fingers and they come running.

"And the Malfoy thing—! When I realized what you'd done, I could barely even believe it—anyone with eyes and half a brain could see what was going on between you—there's a _reason_ that rumor spread like wildfire—the way he fucking _looks at you_—"

She shuddered.

"But Ron and Harry are so—so _blind_ to what you're really like, all they see when they look at you is—is someone who can't do _anything_ wrong, someone who does their homework for them and makes sure they eat their vegetables and it drives me crazy, it really, _really_ does, and the thought of you getting _away_ with your—your dirty little secret was just too much for me, I couldn't handle it, I just—I had to _show him_, and really, it was _wonderful_, how it happened, he was so much angrier than I thought he would be, and when Malfoy tried to _defend_ you—I didn't see that coming _at all_, and it made everything so much more _real_, didn't it? Didn't it?"

I watched her talk, watched her smirk, and felt anger bubble and froth inside of me, like a potion gone horribly wrong—I wanted to hit her, I wanted to _hurt_ her, I wanted her to regret what she'd done—deeply, sincerely—because it was _her fault_, what had happened last night, she'd _caused it_, instigated, plotted and planned and organized and stolen something from me, something she had no right to even know _existed_, without even meaning to—because this wasn't about Ron, not anymore—I'd been upset, certainly, when he'd caught us, but the helpless, chaotic, _bottomless_ sense of rage that was building up just then had nothing to do with him.

"You don't really believe that I can't get him back, do you?" I drawled disdainfully. "If I really wanted to?"

She paled.

"Wh—what do you mean?"

I laughed.

"_Ron_, you stupid cow. It wouldn't be very hard, you know—no matter what he says, he's never stopped loving me. And he never will. You're admittedly—well, _easier_—but I'm the one who's always been too good for him. I'm the one he's going to still think about, years from now, after he's dumped you and moved on to someone better. I'm the one he'll _always_ wonder about—the one who got away."

I paused, letting my words sink in—and even though I wasn't sure of them, had no real idea how he felt about her, I schooled my expression into a smooth, cool mask of derision.

"I could have him back by the end of the day, if I wanted—not that I do, really, but you see what I mean, don't you?" I asked sweetly.

"You—you _wouldn't_," she hissed, taking a step towards me.

"Oh, I _would_," I retorted. "And in case there's _any_ confusion—after all, I know how _easily_ you can get confused—let me spell it out for you: you're _not_ my equal. You're _not_ my replacement. You're nothing more than a vapid, shallow bitch so devoid of any redeeming, likable qualities you're practically a _caricature_ of a human being. You're an insipid, annoying waste of time—and do you want to know _why_ no one takes you seriously? _Because you aren't worth the effort_."

Her lips trembled as she scrambled to find a suitably scathing reply, and I felt a dull spurt of satisfaction.

"He would _never_ take you back," she said shakily, unconvincingly. "He _hates _you right now."

"Well," I shot back sarcastically, "if you're _sure_."

She stared at me in blatant despair, and I raised a nonchalant brow.

"I don't—I don't understand. Are you threatening me? What do you want?"

Our eyes met, then—hers glassy, mine fierce.

"I want you to suffer," I said simply.

"I'm _sorry_, okay?" she blubbered. "I just—you _have_ to see, even a little bit, that it just wasn't fair, it _isn't_ fair, and I'm not a bad person, I'm not, I just—"

She didn't understand. She didn't know what she'd done wrong, not really, and I was suddenly tired—no, _exhausted_, the previous evening nothing more than a moonstruck blur, my lack of sleep was catching up to me, it was winning the race—and I realized that what had happened after she'd left—what I'd said, what I'd done—wasn't her fault.

It was mine; all mine.

"Stop," I sighed. "Just—stop. I'm not going to steal Ron from you."

"You're _not_?" she blurted out, confused.

"No," I said wearily. "I'm not."

"Then…then what are you going to do?"

"Nothing," I said, shrugging. "But you owe me a favor, as far as I'm concerned."

"That sounds ominous," she giggled uncomfortably, glancing away.

"Could be," I responded dismissively, turning to my armoire to remove my pajamas.

She observed me awkwardly.

"Are you—are you going to _bed_?"

"Yes. With any luck, by the time I wake up it will already be tomorrow."

OOO

I slept through breakfast, lunch, and dinner, waking up around nine to an empty room—my tongue had that dense, fuzzy feeling that seems to only appear after an inappropriately long nap, and I badly needed a shower.

Stretching my neck, I caught sight of an envelope resting against the window. It was unmarked, and with a tepid sort of interest I cracked the seal, removing a crisp sheet of parchment.

_We need to talk._

My pulse jumped—_this_ is what his handwriting looked like, then, strong, sloping letters, a smudged fingerprint in the corner; messy and masculine and uncomplicated.

I blinked, tearing off my clothes and heading for the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I was rushing towards the Astronomy Tower.

He was waiting for me, his posture impatient, and I skidded to a halt, wishing I'd taken the time to dry my hair.

"Granger," he said indifferently. "I wanted to say this in person."

"I—"

"No," he interrupted, annoyed. "This won't take long."

He paused, taking a deep breath.

"Watch your back," he said, jaw clenched. "My father sent me a—well, a rather _colorful_ letter this morning. He's heard…_unsavory_ things about me. And you. It's made him unhappy."

"So you're—you're _warning_ me? Isn't this what you wanted? You said—" I broke off, a bad taste in my mouth.

His gaze flickered.

"My father has strong opinions about the kind of people I should spend my time with. And while I may have initially—oh, I don't know—_toyed_ with the idea of using you to make him angry—I didn't expect him to react this…aggressively. So—well, just fucking be careful. He's visiting this weekend."

And then he brushed past me, heading for the stairs, and I felt something dark and menacing and vile enter my thoughts.

"He's—he's visiting this weekend?" I asked casually.

He glanced back, irritated.

"Yes."

"Do you…have any plans?"

"What the fuck?"

I swallowed.

"Do you?" I persisted.

He walked back to me, his eyes cold.

"Yeah, actually," he answered. "I'm taking the Mark. Silly family tradition—you know how it is."

I gaped at him.

"No, you're not!" I replied automatically, too panicked, too stunned to breathe.

"I think I'd know better than you," he pointed out angrily. "And, _yes_, I am."

"No, you aren't," I said stubbornly. "Because _Pansy_ wouldn't have told me if you were—which, I should add, she _did_, last night—because that would have been stupid of her, I could have—could have fucking _told someone_, Snape, a teacher, _someone_ important—"

"So you think she was _lying_? You think she _made it up_ to—to fuck with you? Are you that bloody naïve, Granger?" He shook his head, violently, tersely. "_I'm getting Marked_ _this weekend._ I'm meeting my father and—and what do you all call him? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Fucking _idiots_—and I'm joining the fight against your visually-impaired little friend because it's my _duty_. It's what I'm _supposed to do_."

I stared at him, then, thinking, dimly, that I could _hear_ my heart break, hear it fall apart, turn to dust—but that couldn't be right, could it, hearts didn't break, they didn't just _stop beating_, not like this.

"_No, no, no, no,_" I whispered, as if by repeating the word over and over and over again I could make it true, make him a liar. "_No_."

"_Yes_," he said stiffly. "Yes. So on Saturday, while I'm off fulfilling my destiny—because that's what I'll be doing, you know, it's what I was _born_ to be doing—you can—can make up with Weasley, or memorize a book, or fucking—fuck, I don't know. Whatever you did before…all of this."

He grimaced.

"I know it wasn't you," I finally said softly. "Last night. I know you didn't—I know you didn't plan for that."

He snorted.

"It doesn't matter."

"_Yes_," I said firmly. "It _does_. I—I'm sorry."

He flexed his hands.

"_No_, it fucking doesn't," he grunted. "Because—because _this_—this isn't—_wasn't_—fucking going anywhere. Shagging you on the grass wouldn't have changed that."

I studied him for a minute before speaking.

"I'm a virgin."

He jerked back in surprise.

"_What_?"

"I'm a virgin," I said again, biting back my embarrassment.

"You're not serious."

"I am."

He started laughing, the sound rich and full and achingly unfamiliar—I blushed.

"So _that's_ what Weasley meant," he grinned. "He was a bit put out, wasn't he?"

"He shouldn't have been—it isn't like I didn't _want_ to…_want to_," I explained, fidgeting. "It just—it always felt wrong. Off. Or—I don't know. I sound silly."

"No," he said, his expression softening. "No, you don't."

As the silence stretched on and on, the air between us changed—it was waiting for something, the way it is before a storm, swollen and heavy and charged with electricity.

And then a tiny fragment of my brain switched on, _clicked_, and I began to unbutton my shirt, my hands shaking as I shrugged it off.

"Granger—what—what the fuck are you _doing_?" he asked hoarsely.

I ignored him, unzipping my skirt, letting it float to the ground; I was naked, and he didn't—_couldn't_—look away.

He reached for me slowly, his skin warm, rubbing his thumbs over my arms; and then he pushed me down, so that I was sitting on the window ledge, and he stepped between my legs, lifting his shirt over his head as he groaned.

"I shouldn't do this," he said, kissing me quickly, furiously, gripping my lower lip tightly with his teeth. "You don't—it shouldn't be with me—it should be with, with fuckface, what's-his-name, with someone you have a—have a fucking future with—"

Instead of responding, I fumbled with his belt buckle, frantic, as his fingers wandered down the planes of stomach, stroking, fluttering, teasing—and then he was there, a fraction of an inch away, and all I wanted—no, no, _needed_—was to get closer, find out for myself what he felt like.

"I'm going to—I'm going to be ordered to _kill you_, Hermione. Your friends—your family—I'm going to _hurt_ them," he implored, his voice ragged. "I'm going to have to hurt _you_."

"No," I said, so sure, so certain, pushing my hips forward and gasping at the intrusion. "You would never hurt me."

He looked down at me, and his grip tightened at my waist, and _oh_—I would have sworn that the entire rest of the world had ceased to exist, that it was just him and me, and when he pressed his lips against my temple, and his body moved against mine, out and in, in and out, I realized that I'd been right to wait for this, right to believe that this could happen; because if it had been anyone else, anywhere else, I would have always wondered if it could have been better.

If it could have been like this.

And then there was that pressure in my abdomen, that spidery tingle blossoming across my lower back, up my spine, through every last one of my muscles, and even as I started to scream, and his hand clamped over my mouth, I felt his shoulders tense, just for a second, and his hips go still, and then I heard him growl in my ear—

"I could never hurt you, I'd fucking kill anyone who tried, you're _mine_—"

A bead of sweat slid down my neck.

"I know," I murmured, burrowing into his arms.

And I forgot about what was wrong with him, wrong with me, wrong with us; right then, it all seemed so impossibly far away—right then, it didn't matter.

Because that moment was easy, and it was natural, and if I was being honest with myself, I would have admitted that I never wanted it to end.

OOO


	13. XII

**DIFFICULT**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

It _had _to end, though.

Of course it did—time didn't stop anymore, especially not for me.

I scooted backwards, wincing; the stone ledge was frigid cold against my legs, making me feel numb and prickly, and there was a dull soreness settling between my legs, emanating from some never-used muscle deep within my body.

Wordlessly, he handed me my shirt, our fingers touching, and I slipped it on.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm…" he said gruffly. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say."

"Me neither," I admitted.

"I've never—well, I've never…Christ, I don't even know what to fucking call it," he said, laughing in self-deprecation.

"Deflowering?" I suggested, quirking my lips.

"A bit Victorian, yeah?" he snorted.

I desperately wanted to change the subject.

"Why does it even matter?"

He shrugged.

"I just want to remember this," he said quietly. "I want a memory that I can label, you know? Not just—not just _fucking Hermione Granger on a window sill_. It was more than that."

I caught my breath.

He was shirtless still, his chest broader and his shoulders larger than I ever would have guessed; he'd grown up, then, when I wasn't looking, when I wasn't paying attention.

I got to my feet and stood nervously in front of him, the bottom of my Oxford brushing the tops of my thighs. He'd pulled his trousers back up, but hadn't bothered with his belt—it was erotic, really, the way his pants clung to his hips, tantalizingly low, almost daring me to reach forward and yank them down, off, to pull him towards me, to wrap my legs around his waist again and—

My cheeks burned. What was _wrong_ with me?

"So—so was it alright, then?" he demanded suddenly, cracking his knuckles.

I stared. All I could think about was doing it again, and he wanted to know if I'd _liked_ it?

"I just—with virgins—I wasn't sure—isn't it supposed to hurt? The—the _deflowering_, I mean?—And it's a lot of responsibility, you know—practically all my goddamn fault if you fucking hated it, isn't it—I just—well, _did you_?" he blurted out, crossing his arms and scowling.

And then I smiled helplessly, happily, and placed my hands on his shoulders.

"You could say that," I hedged slyly.

He relaxed and looked down at me, a thick chunk of bright blond hair falling across his forehead.

"I'm glad," he replied lazily, moving closer.

"Oh—oh?" I squeaked. "Wh—why is that?"

He grinned, swooping down to whisper in my ear, his breath tumbling warm and moist across my skin.

"_Because that means you'll want to do it again_."

Something hot and delicious scuttled like molten lava through my veins.

"Right now?" I bleated, lacing my fingers behind his neck.

He scraped his teeth against my earlobe.

"Why not?" he murmured, his tongue tracing a delicate, unfamiliar path down my throat.

"Maybe because I'm standing here—you know, _watching_?" a piercing voice said from the doorway.

I gasped, instinctively reaching down to cover myself, knocking the top of Malfoy's head with my elbow.

"Bloody fucking hell," he swore, grimacing as he turned to face our intruder. "_Pansy_?"

"Hello," she said icily, her pale blue eyes narrowed.

I froze, glancing around frantically for my skirt. The enormity of what I'd done with him was looming like an unwanted shadow in the back of my mind, huge and menacing and dark; what if she'd walked in just one or two or even three minutes later? What would have happened, then?

"Shouldn't you find her some pants?" Pansy sneered contemptuously. "She must be freezing."

I slowly straightened, stepping around him and eyeing her with a curious sort of disdain.

"I'm fine," I simpered. "Unless _you're_ uncomfortable?"

"No," she ground out. "Just trying to spare you _some_ embarrassment."

Draco sighed.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"_I_ just wanted to look at some stars. _I_ have _homework_. What are _you_ doing here?" she shot back.

He leaned back against the wall, smirking.

"Fucking," he drawled, looking pointedly at my bare legs.

I winced; her face hardened.

"You're _disgusting_," she sniffed angrily. "Your _mother_ asked me to look out for you, you _know_ that, and I don't know what's been wrong with you lately but it's starting to—to get _annoying_, Draco, I'm not going to wait around for you forever, it isn't—"  
>"No one fucking asked you to, Pansy!" he shouted, spreading his arms out. "<em>Stop<em> fucking _waiting_ for me! I—you're—I mean, fuck, you're like a—like a _spider_ or something, that just won't fucking die no matter how many times you step on it—you just keep darting away, hiding in the cracks, who really fucking knows, and every time something good happens, you're there to remind me that—oh, no, no no no, I'm not _allowed_ to enjoy myself, I have fucking—fucking _arachnophobia_, or something, don't I?"

I swallowed anxiously, awkwardly; she turned white.

"Your father would be so angry with you if he heard—"

"_No_," he interrupted loudly. "_No_. You don't _know_ my fucking father, you don't _know_ what he would do if he saw me—" He waved vaguely in my direction. "—with _her_. If he heard what I'm saying to you. And seriously, Pansy? I don't think he would even fucking _care_. Because if there's _one thing_ in this entire goddamn world my father loves more than himself, and his _legacy_, and my mother—it's _me_."

My eyes widened.

"You—you don't know what you're saying," Pansy mumbled, desperate. "You're acting _crazy_, Draco, you're—you're being _ridiculous_, you're sitting there and—and _justifying_ your behavior, it's not _normal_, it's not _okay_—what about this weekend? What about that?"

He grunted.

"I guess we'll see," he said coldly.

"You're going to give it all up," she said disbelievingly. "Oh, my God—you _are_, aren't you? You're going to—to turn your back on all of us so you can—can shag some skinny, mudblood _slut_? Are you _serious_, Draco? _She isn't worth it_, you _must_ realize that, what has she _done_ to you—"

"Pansy," he said softly, so softly; but his voice was deep, and it was deadly, and in the moment before he continued speaking I rather thought I'd gone deaf, that there was no possible way the air around us had gone so still, so quiet. "If you say one more fucking word about her—even _one_—I will fucking hurt you. I will hurt you without remorse, without any fucking regard for your gender, and without hesitation. Do you fucking _understand_ me? _Do you_?"

A chill crept up my spine.

She clenched her teeth, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

"You're such a hypocrite, you know that? You've _hated_ her for—for how long? And for _what_, exactly? _Existing_? And—and _overnight_, it's like you've _forgotten_ about that, like you can't remember that _I_ am the one who laughed at all your fucking jokes and—and knows you best and was _there for you_, when you lost to Harry Potter at—at _quidditch_, like that fucking mattered, and when your father got arrested and—"

She stopped.

"Leave," he replied harshly. "_Now_."

She nodded, her chin trembling, before spinning around and rushing down the stairs. She left a stupefying silence in her wake.

"There was no letter, was there? From your father, I mean," I said shakily.

He ran a violent hand through his hair.

"No."

"Then—why did you say there was? What was the point?"

He pressed his lips together.

"There was _a_ letter," he explained tiredly. "I don't know who it was from, though. It wasn't his handwriting, but they signed his name. I told you that my father sent it because—well, because I knew you'd believe that. You all think he's fucking evil, don't you?"

"He tried to _kill me_."

He bent down to collect his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

"You should get dressed," he said coolly, abruptly.

I stared at him, stunned, as he thrust my skirt at me.

"I don't—I don't understand."

"I don't know what I was thinking," he said, roughly stuffing his tie into his pocket. "Last night should have been a pretty good fucking warning, shouldn't it? You're never going to see me any differently—you're always going to fucking think the worst."

"_What_ are you talking about? I don't—"

"_Yes_, you _do_ fucking understand," he said. "Stop pretending to be fucking stupid when you're not."

"What is—what just _happened_?"

"What _happened_?" he repeated incredulously. "What _happened_ is that I—I fucking _forgot_ how fucking—fucking _self-righteous_ you are. You look at me and you see seven fucking years of—of _what_, of fucking _hostility_? Can you really say any of that ever really mattered? _Can you_? Because you know what I see when I look at you?"

"No—" I started to protest.

"I see a girl who doesn't need me. I see a girl who has no fucking _concept_ of how beautiful she is. I see a girl who—who heard my worst secret and let me keep kissing her." He paused, his eyes so sharp they seemed metallic, almost, like brightly polished silver. "I see a girl who will never trust me, who—who will always wonder if I'm lying, or hiding something. I see a girl who I was probably better off hating."

I wanted so badly to contradict him, but the words wouldn't come, no matter how many times I opened my mouth—he was right, though, of course he was right, because we had no future together, it—this—_we_ weren't going to have a happy ending, it wasn't just unlikely, it was impossible.

"Well?" he demanded. "Fucking _say_ _something_, Granger."

"Of course the past is relevant," I finally replied, nostrils flared. "How could it not be? How could it not make a difference? You—you _tormented me_, on purpose, for years and years, and why should I act, even for a second, like you didn't?"

I was being sensible, wasn't I? But as I watched him, and the silence stretched on and on and on, I started to panic—because it was confusing, really, and I wasn't certain of my feelings anymore, and I felt as if I was a step behind, as if I'd missed my cue, and I didn't fully understand what we were arguing about, what had happened to make him break; it was like taking a test you hadn't studied for, like pretending to know the words to a song you'd only heard once.

"So that's it, to you," he said, half-smiling. "There's no point in trying, because you can't change the past, and _everybody _should have the shit they did at thirteen thrown back at them five years later. Because that's _fair_, right? And you're all about fair, Granger."

I furrowed my brow.

"Yes," I responded, hesitant, unsure.

"_Yes_," he mimicked cruelly. "I'm a fucking moron, aren't I? As if last night wasn't a big enough fucking clue."

"Why do you keep saying that? You said—you said last night didn't matter," I said weakly. "You said—"

"I lied," he sneered. "I'm pretty fucking good at that, remember?"

My tongue felt dry and sticky.

"No," I whispered.

The conversation was clearly over. He brushed past me, knocking my bundled-up skirt out of my hands and onto the ground. He stopped at the door.

"By the way—_deflowering_ is a silly word. That wasn't what this was," he said distantly.

I gazed at him, expressionless.

"What was it, then?"

"It was a fucking _mistake_."

OOO

I stood at the window, unblinking, after he left.

Something important had just happened, and I felt helpless, utterly and completely, because I didn't understand what it was. What had he expected me to say? What had he wanted?

Slowly, I retrieved my skirt, zipping it up and looking around, blearily, for my tights. There was a throbbing pain in my stomach, an emptiness reminiscent of that lingering kind of nausea that accompanied motion sickness. I'd fucked up again, hadn't I?

I trailed my fingers over the wall as I descended the stairs.

"God, _there_ you are," Pansy Parkinson exclaimed, emerging from a small alcove to my left. "I thought you were going to stay up there _forever_. You're so annoying."

I jumped back, involuntarily, tripping over the step behind me, and sat splayed on the ground, staring up at her.

"You—you were _waiting_ for me?" I asked. "_Why_?"

"Because I have something to say to you," she replied, irritated.

"I can't imagine why you think I want to listen," I said, getting to my feet and brushing off the backs of my legs.

"Stay away from him, Granger," she said softly, ignoring me.

I noticed how tense she was, how stiffly she was holding her shoulders.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Stay _away_ from him."

"You don't really think I'm going to listen to you, do you?" I responded, amazed.

And that was when she snapped.

"Why won't you—you just _go away_?" she shrieked, her cheeks blossoming with color. "Why are you _doing this_ to me? To him? Were you just _curious_ to see if you could—the way you're fucking curious about everything? Was it like a—some kind of _social experiment_? Are you _taking notes_ yet? It's like—like I spent five whole years waiting for him to notice me, to look at me twice, and you have him wrapped around your finger in _two weeks_, and how is that _fair_? Hmmm? How is that—that even _allowed_? It's like a—a _joke_, except I wasn't in on it and no one told me and now it's too late—"

"I don't have him—" I started to say.

"Oh, just _stop talking_, Granger," she cried, the skin around her eyes growing tight. "You have no _idea_ how long I've loved him, how long I—"

She broke off; I felt an unexpected surge of pity.

"I'm sorry—" I said quietly.

"_No_," she spat, furious. "_No_. You don't get to feel sorry for me—you're a fucking, a fucking—_muggle_, a—a—a _mudblood_, you don't _get_ to look at me like that, like you—you feel _bad_ for me. You _don't_."

She took a shallow, quivering breath, diamond-bright tears threatening to spill, and glared at me.

"He would have loved me again, you know," she continued shrilly. "He would have gotten over his—his bullshit existential crisis or _whatever_ it was he was going through—he _would have_—and we would have been happy again, we would have, and everything would have happened like it was supposed to, before you fucking—"

"Before I what?" I interjected fiercely.

She studied me, her rage dissipating, and bit her lip, hard.

"Before you stole him. Before you decided that you were tired of screwing up Weasley's life and moved on to Draco. Before that night—_God_, what if I'd never left you two together? What if I'd stayed and made _you_ leave, if I'd known what would happen, I never would have, you know, I would rather have _died_ than let this happen—I just—it was supposed to work out, it was supposed to never end, he's supposed to still _hate you_, not stare at you like you fucking invented magic, it's disgusting, and you don't even _care_, do you? You just—you just _expect it_, or something, like, _oh_, of _course_ he's come to his senses and realized I'm perfect—"

"_Stop it_," I hissed, balling my hands into fists. "You have no fucking _idea_ what you're talking about. So stop blaming _me_ for _your_ fuck-up. _You're_ the one who—who messed up with him, and that had _nothing to do with me_. So just—just shut _up_ about it, already."

"_I_ have no idea what I'm talking about?" she retorted. "Really?"

"He told me, you know, why you broke up," I said defensively. "He told me that you said—"

"That I said things that were _true_?" she said. "Because I loved him? And when you love someone you sometimes have to tell them things they don't want to hear? You don't know _anything_ about him, Granger. _I_ do. _I _know _everything_ about him."

"That didn't really seem to help you out much, did it?" I said meanly, flicking my bangs out of my eyes.

She flinched, turning away from me.

"Just stay _away _from him."

And then she left, and I sank down onto the steps, and I wondered, dimly, if I'd ever be loved like that—that ferociously, that protectively, that _much_.

OOO


	14. XIII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

"—I _know_, out of _nowhere_, he just _attacked_ him! Beat him _senseless_, almost."

"I wonder _why_, though? Didn't Malfoy and Granger already break up? D'you think he _said something_ about her? Something dirty? Wouldn't really put it past him, would you?"

"_Had_ to have, right? I mean, why else would Weasley just go _off_ like that? Seriously, it was _insane_ how hard he hit him, over and over—it was like, it was like muggle boxing, but _bloodier_."

"What are you talking about?" I interrupted the Ravenclaw fifth-years gossiping at the sink, turning the tap on with my wrist and eyeing them curiously in the mirror.

They exchanged amused, furtive glances.

"You didn't _hear_?" the taller one asked pityingly.

"Hear _what_?" I demanded, exasperated.

"Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy got into a fight this morning—well, if you could even _call_ it a fight—Malfoy didn't even bother defending himself," she replied, leaning forward to reapply her mascara. "It was brutal."

My heart stopped.

"Were you _there_? Did you see it?"

"Well—no, but I was just around the corner, I totally _heard_ the whole thing, and—"

"What—" I started to bleat before stopping to clear my throat. "What was the fight about?"

I silently, urgently hoped that it had been about something silly, something inconsequential, a prank gone wrong, because Ron had always been paranoid, always been quick to judge, quick to anger, quick to fight—it was probably nothing, they were probably just exaggerating—

"Well," she said awkwardly, "it was actually, um, it was actually about _you_. No one heard what Malfoy said, exactly, but Weasley—well, he went _mental_."

"Oh," I croaked, feeling faint.

"Sorry," she mumbled, making a face before grabbing her bag and reaching for the door. "I know that—well, I wouldn't have said anything about it if I'd known you didn't…know."

They left quickly, the door swinging shut behind them.

I stood very, very still, watching my tense, preternaturally pale reflection stare back at me—and then I was sprinting through the hallway, pushing through the crowds, heading towards the one place where I knew he'd be, where I knew he'd be waiting for me.

"How _dare_ you," I said heatedly as I tumbled through the portrait hole and into the Gryffindor Common Room.

Ron looked up at me from the couch, his hair tousled, a dark purple bruise blossoming across his jaw—the fifth-year had been wrong, then, when she'd said Malfoy hadn't fought back.

"Thought you might show up," he said tersely, glaring.

I stalked towards him, my pulse racing, my thoughts jumbled.

"How could you?" I asked shrilly. "_Really_, Ron. We aren't _twelve_ anymore, starting fights like that, you could have been _hurt_, you could have hurt _him_—"

"I _did _hurt him," he smirked, interrupting me. "And you know _what_, Hermione? We're _not friends_ _anymore_. This really isn't any of your business."

I jerked back.

"If it was about _me_," I said, gritting my teeth. "Then it _is _my business."

He scoffed.

"I bet you wouldn't be so eager to blame it all on me if you'd heard what he said about you."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, so I'm meant to believe you were—_what_, defending me? Seriously? After the other night?"

He leapt to his feet, shaking his head.

"I don't really care anymore, 'Mione," he said, turning towards the Boys' staircase and gingerly beginning to unbutton his shirt. "You aren't my problem. Go on, then—stay _mad_ at me. It doesn't matter."

I stared at him, at his face, at his painfully familiar features; the too-long nose, the barely-visible clusters of freckles, the wide-set mouth that should have been smiling, was almost always smiling—and I suddenly wanted to do nothing but cry.

What had happened to me? Where had I gone wrong?

"Wait," I whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I don't—I don't want things to be like this."

He snorted, yanking his arm out of my grasp.

"A bit late for that, yeah?"

But the tips of his ears had turned a bright, lurid red.

"Is it?"

His gaze flew to mine.

"Lavender said you'd do this, you know," he said. "She said you'd come—come crawling back eventually, that you'd realize you fucked up and it was just a matter of time."

I slowly straightened my spine.

"_Did _she?" I asked sarcastically. "Such a _smart_ girl."

His nostrils flared.

"I'm not getting back together with you."

"I didn't ask you to," I replied stonily. "I just don't want you to _hate me_."

He looked away.

"I can't get past it, 'Mione," he finally said. "I just—I can't. Whenever I close my eyes, all I see is you and him—with your legs around him—it was just—I _can't_."

I swallowed.

"Why did you attack him, Ron? Really."

"He said you—he said that he'd—against a _window_—I can't even—" He shuddered, then sighed. "Why'd you do it, 'Mione? With him, I mean."

I'd been asking myself the same question; but what he couldn't understand was that I _didn't know_. I didn't have an answer and I didn't have a good reason. All I had was a tiny, fragmented voice in my head that was telling me he was different, he was special, and that he was going to change everything, he was going to _matter_—but I couldn't articulate that, I didn't know how.

"He smiled," I said softly, shrugging fatalistically, helplessly, my lips trembling, pressed together. "He smiled, and it was—it was perfect."

He blinked, furrowed his brow, and studied me for a long, drawn-out moment.

"You're joking, yeah?" he said loudly, forcing a laugh.

"No, Ron," I said tiredly. "I'm not _joking_. He—he _swears_ too much—I sometimes wonder what he'd sound like if he wasn't allowed to use the word _fuck_—and he's _mean_—to everyone, sometimes even me—and he—he's _stubborn_, and _condescending_, and—"

"And a lying, evil, conniving, Slytherin _prick_," he interjected.

"That, too," I agreed sadly. "But—but sometimes, he isn't. Sometimes, he's—he's _funny_, and _kind_, and he makes me feel like I—like I'm the only girl in the entire world, and I've never felt like that before, you know? I haven't. I always thought—I always thought when people said that, that it was _ridiculous_, that they sounded _ridiculous_—but now—now—it makes sense, almost. And when he kisses me, I stop _breathing_, I stop _thinking_, there's no other way to explain it—"

"I don't want to hear any of this, Hermione," he hissed. "Just—just fucking _stop it_. I don't want to hear about how he _kisses you_, and—and how you've _never felt like that before_—because I don't know if you _remember_, yeah, but—but we _dated_, for years, and—all I'm hearing right now is that _Malfoy_—really, of _all _the people you could have picked, it had to be him—is fucking—fucking _better _than me."

I drew in a sharp breath.

"Ron," I said quietly, apologetically. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—I shouldn't have—" I stopped, clasped my hands together, started over. "I didn't mean to—"

"You know what—_yeah_," he said angrily. "I think you _did_ mean to—I think you're _jealous_ of me and Lavender, and I think that you thought you could—could fucking take it out on me by shagging Malfoy. _That's_ what I think."

"Don't even—don't even_ try _to bring her into this," I replied tightly, taking a furious step forward. "Did she tell you what she did? Did she bother mentioning that _she_ was the one who _planned_ that whole—that messy scene by the lake the other night? Did she?"

His eyes widened.

"Really, 'Mione? You're _that_ desperate to make her look bad?"

I cocked my head to the side, stunned.

"You don't believe me."

"_No_," he said emphatically. "No, I don't. You've—you've lied to me, to Harry, you're sneaking around with fucking _Malfoy_, you're making things up about Lavender—to make yourself look better? I don't know—and you're—you're different now. He's changed you, and not for the better."

"I'd think you'd be _happy_ that I'm different!" I shouted. "Or have you _forgotten_ how much you didn't like me when we were together? Have you? What was I—_hard to love_, right? That's how you said it?"

He paled.

"Well—I wasn't _wrong_, was I?" he returned shakily.

"_That's_ why," I burst out bitterly. "_That's_ why I did it—because Malfoy doesn't think I'm fucking—_difficult_. Well—he might, actually, but he _doesn't care_, he knows I'm not easy, and he still—he'd _defend_ me, not criticize me, and he'd _protect_ me, even if I didn't ask him to, and he thinks I'm beautiful, he thinks I'm—"

I stuttered, stumbled, stammered—and then felt sick, felt a thick, swift wave of blood rush to my head, and I realized that I shouldn't have gone looking for Ron, no, no, I should have gone to Malfoy, I should have been with him, I should have been fixing what had happened between us, I should, I _should_—

"I have to go," I said, tripping backwards.

"What—Hermione—_why_?" he called after me. "We're not done here, you know, you can't just—"

"No, Ron, we _are_ done. Because tomorrow's Saturday," I answered crossly, "and _you_ aren't important."

And then I started to run.

OOO

His lip was split down the center by an angry black scab; his right eye was half-closed, pink, and puffy; and his cheekbones were littered with powdery purple bruises.

"What do you want?" he asked, breaking the silence.

I walked slowly, steadily up to him, taking measured, even steps, trying hard not to look at the now-famous window.

"I just—I heard about the fight," I responded cautiously.

"Oh, _did_ you?" he sneered.

"What—what happened? Ron said that you—"

"You talked to Weasley?" he demanded. "You went to him first?"

I nervously licked my lips.

"I heard that he started it, so I—"

"Stop right there," he snarled. "Because you _already_ have it fucking wrong."

"You—_you_ started it? But—_why_?"

"That mousy little twit he replaced you with—what the fuck is her name, _anyway_? I never bothered learning it—she was saying—well, she was talking about you to him, saying that you were going to _regret what you'd done_, or something fucking stupid like that, and try to get him back, and he got all _smug_ and _Weasley-ish_ about it, and I just—I couldn't handle listening to it, you know? It was like—like, _God_, did he _ever_ know _anything_ about you? After the shit he said, after how he fucking broke up with you, you'd probably jump out this goddamn window before getting back together with him."

"You've said things like that to me," I reminded him. "You've said _worse_ things to me."

"Yeah," he said impatiently, "but I didn't _mean_ them. Not really."

"Wh—_what_?"

"_Anyway_," he continued, glaring at me. "All I did was—well, _point out_ that it was maybe _unlikely_ that would ever happen. Considering, you know, what we did last night. And he went fucking ballistic, started ranting about how you're a whore, and a slut, and no better than a common prostitute—honestly, it got pretty fucking repetitive—and so I hit him."

"And then he hit you." I glanced at his face. "A lot."

He shrugged.

"I just wanted him to shut up. I didn't care about winning."

"No," I said thoughtfully. "No. You're lying. You always care about winning."

He chewed the inside of his mouth for a moment, studying the ceiling.

"You're right. It's just that—it occurred to me, after I punched him, that I was doing it because of you—and I didn't want to fucking fight for you. I just—I fucking _couldn't_—because that would _mean_ something, right? That would make it seem like—like I fucking care. I just—I _couldn't_, it would have been too fucking pathetic."

I flinched.

"That's a lot to put your face through just to make a point, isn't it?"

He snorted, refusing to answer.

"I mean, what if I hadn't even come up here? And you hadn't been able to say that to me? Wouldn't that have ruined everything?"

He clamped his teeth together; I continued talking.

"Unless it was the _principle_ of it—which wouldn't make any sense, would it, because you don't have any of those. Right?"

"_Fine_. I'll play," he growled. "I really _don't_ care, Granger, not about you, at least—I was _using you_—try not to look so surprised, yeah?—because my father wouldn't let me get Marked—said I was too fucking young, that I'd regret it, that I should fucking _wait_, and I didn't want to—why _should_ I, when nine months out of the year he's off running around in a fucking mask? And then that whole…_situation_ with you happened, and I thought he might, I don't know, _relent_—if it came down to _you_ or the Mark, it's hardly even a choice."

My heart was beating hard—so hard, too hard—and I was astonished, really, that my chest hadn't split open from the pressure, from the weight, and I wanted to _scream_, I wanted to do something, anything, to make him understand that what he was saying, what he was implying, was going to break me, and that I couldn't keep listening to him, I couldn't keep letting him talk—it would hurt too much, it would hurt _so_ much—

"I—I see," I managed to choke out, my jaw clenched. "Did it work?"

"What?" he snapped.

"Did it work," I repeated. "Is your father letting you get Marked?"

He blinked.

"Yeah."

"Congratulations, then," I said. "I'm glad I could be of service."

"Hermione—" he started to say, stepping towards me.

"What?"

He watched me for a full minute before looking down at the floor.

"Never mind."

"_No_," I said fiercely. "Not _never mind_. After everything _else_ you just said, surely you can at least finish your fucking sentence?"

"_This_, I think, is the thing I like most about you," he murmured, half-smiling. "You're standing there, trying incredibly fucking hard to hold it together, and—and you're still _demanding_ things, you're still fucking—I don't know—_determined_ to make sure that I know I'm wrong. How d'you manage that, exactly? I've always wondered."

I swallowed.

"Is that a compliment?"

"What else would it be?"

I didn't reply; he reached forward, brushing a thumb across my cheek.

"It was a compliment," he said quietly, moving past me to stand at the window.

"You shouldn't do it," I suddenly said. "Get Marked, I mean."

He froze, the muscles in his back bunching up.

"Why?"

"Because you're better than that," I responded simply. "You—you're _better_ than her, than them—than an ugly, permanent scar on your fucking forearm you're going to spend the rest of your life _listening _to, and—and _obeying_, and _waiting for_."

He spun around to face me.

"You'd say all of that about me, even after what I just told you."

It wasn't a question.

"Apparently."

He stared at me, his eyes narrowed, his mouth shut tight; I held my breath.

"Then you're a fucking idiot."

"_Excuse_ me?"

"Seriously, Granger. I'm not a fucking saint—I'm a bully with a God complex and a shitty temper. Don't romanticize me for the sake of—of _what_, your conscience? So you don't have to regret letting me shag you—" He patted the window ledge. "—_right here_?"

I flushed.

"Go ahead," I seethed. "_Mock me_. But _you_ weren't the one being pleaded with the other night, to not think the worst, to not push you away, and _you_ weren't the one being shouted at yesterday, thanks to some—some fucking _imaginary_ slight against you—I _still_ don't know what happened, you know—and—and you _care_ about me—even if you never want to admit it—and that's not the _point_, because it doesn't matter anymore if you ever say it, but—but I'm not going to let you do something _stupid_, something that I don't even think you _want—_"

"_You_—_don't_—_know_—_me_," he spat. "You don't know what I want. And you're not going to _let_ me do anything—_you don't matter_, remember?"

"You're making a mistake," I said softly.

"Yeah?" he roared, biting his fist. "And what if I don't think it's a fucking mistake? What then? What if I don't think it's the _dark side_, the _bad side_—what then? Huh?"

I stood motionless, silent, and my head felt heavy and full, my neck brittle.

"Then I guess I'd be wrong about you," I said calmly. "But you know what—I don't think I am."

"And why is that?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Our eyes met, then, and my stomach clenched—violently, desperately—and I wondered, abruptly, why I was bothering; was he a lost cause? A waste of time?

"Because you—" My voice cracked, broke. "Because you aren't the same as them. You—you kissed me like you _meant_ it, and you hit Ron when he called me a slut—even though you didn't want to, even though you thought it was pathetic—and you _cared_ if I liked having sex with you, it _mattered_ _to you_ that you'd made my first time special—no, _extraordinary_, and I _know_ that you think I don't trust you, and I _know_ that you think I—I'm never going to believe you can change, but—"

He was watching me talk, his battered face expressionless; I started over.

"It's like—like when you're doing one of those thousand piece puzzles, you know? And you're almost done, just a couple of pieces left to go, and then you notice an empty spot in one of the corners—and you get frustrated, because none of the pieces that you have left look like they'll fit. And you want to give up, you do, because what's the point in an unfinished puzzle—but then you turn a piece over, just to see what it looks like, and you realize that maybe it _can_ fit, and so you try it out, and—"

"What are you trying to say?" he demanded, interrupting.

"You—_we_—we looked wrong, like we didn't belong together," I whispered. "We shouldn't have fit."

He reached for me, then, his hands tightening around my waist as he gazed down at me.

"But we did."

OOO


	15. XIV

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

He tasted better than heaven, better than I remembered, better than he should have; his fingers were tangled in my hair, his lips voracious, rapacious, and I felt my body jerk forward, up, magnetically, almost, because this time I knew exactly what I wanted, I knew exactly what was coming—

"This doesn't change anything," he grunted, placing his hands on my hips and moving me up onto the window ledge—again, of course, _again_. "This doesn't _mean_ anything, yeah?"

"Wh—what are you talking about?" I gulped as he flipped my skirt up, wrenched my legs apart, dropped to his knees. "What are you _doing_?"

"This isn't because I _care_," he said savagely. "It's because I fucking _want to_."

"So you're—you're still getting Marked?" I stuttered as he kissed the inside of my leg, the stubble along his jaw scratching roughly at my skin.

"Of course I am," he replied, his breath swirling hot and fierce against my thighs, his fingertips tracing delicate patterns over my lower abdomen. "It doesn't matter how _wonderful_ you think I am—not when I know better."

"I never said you were _wonderful_," I argued weakly. "I just—I just—"

"Granger," he said softly, glancing up at me. "Stop talking now, yeah?"

And then he smirked, his eyes holding mine for a fraction of a second too long, and then he was there, his mouth, his teeth, I didn't know, couldn't tell, and—and _oh_, oh no, oh _yes_, he was nibbling, teasing, his tongue swirling gently, slowly, _so_ slowly, and something uncoiled, something profound, something important, something inside me, and I was unlocked, opened, like a jewelry box you thought you'd lost the key for, and he was pushing at my knees, delving deep, deeper, his fingernails were digging into my hips, and then I moved against his face, made a sound, and he stood up, abruptly, fumbling with his belt—

"You're fucking perfect," he growled, tossing his shirt over his head. "_Every_—_fucking_—_inch_—_of_—_you_. You taste perfect and you look perfect and—" He yanked me towards him. "—everything about _this_ is fucking perfect."

There was an inky, itchy emptiness that I needed to fill, though, and as I felt him push against me, into me, I gasped—but then I threw my arms around his neck, tightly, frantically, and he shifted, slightly, and I bit down on his neck, because if I didn't, if I hadn't, I would have screamed—I would have screamed so loud and so long that surely the entire castle would hear, come running, come see what the commotion was.

"Is it supposed to feel this good?" I asked, my lips brushing against his ear. "Is it like this every time?"

"No," he replied tersely, breathlessly, "it isn't."

OOO

Afterwards, he lifted me up and slid down to the floor, his chest slick with sweat as it pressed against my back.

"What are we doing?" he asked lazily, lacing his fingers through mine.

"What do you mean?"

"This. _Us_. I don't know—it's like I just woke up one day and—and everything was different. Those stupid rumors I was spreading—out of nowhere, it was like they stopped being ridiculous—and they started to seem real, as if they might actually be fucking true. What do you call that?"

I squeezed his hand.

"Ironic foreshadowing?"

"I'm not sure if this qualifies as irony," he replied, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly over my own.

"It's karma, then."

"For _what_?" he chuckled, the sound reassuring, and I felt my skin tingle.

"That depends," I teased primly. "Are you being punished or rewarded?"

He hesitated.

"It's hard to tell sometimes," he said. "Isn't it? I mean—I mean sometimes I feel like—like I can't even fucking _believe_ how lucky I am, yeah? That you were here, all along, and all I had to do was look—and then ten minutes later—I change my mind, I remember how fucking annoying you are and—I just want you to _go away_, you know?"

I swallowed.

"Yeah. I know. Gets a bit confusing, really," I responded, laughing self-consciously.

His arms tightened around me.

"Ask me again, Granger."

"Ask you—_oh_," I said dumbly. "Right." I cleared my throat. "Are you—are you being punished—" I quirked my lips. "—or rewarded?"

I felt his pulse quicken.

"Rewarded."

"Then—well, as far as karma is concerned—then that means you did something good," I said quietly, nervously.

"It does?"

"If you believe in it."

"And what if I didn't do something good?" he asked thoughtfully. "What if I did a lot of things that were bad, and I still ended up getting you?"

"You—well—"

"Does karma ever screw up? Make a mistake? What would happen if it did?"

"It doesn't work like that. It—you—there has to be balance. Between good and bad," I explained, chewing the inside of my mouth.

"But if it did," he persisted. "If it royally fucked up and gave me something that I didn't deserve."

"If it did," I answered painfully, "then it would mean that ending up with me isn't such a terribly good thing."

"According to karma."

"According to karma," I affirmed.

He grunted.

"Karma is really fucking dumb, then."

I coughed.

"Wh—_what_?"

"Seriously. What kind of _message_ is that? 'Sure, Draco, yeah, go ahead and be a total fucking prat—it won't get in the way at _all_, don't you know there's some kind of cosmic fucking joke being played, and you'll end up with her anyway?'"

I twisted around to face him, bemused.

"Did you—did you just call yourself a _prat_?"

"Might have."

Something warm and wonderful flooded my bloodstream.

"_Finally_," I giggled. "I thought you'd never admit it."

"Weasley said it enough times while he pummeled me that I started to think, hey, maybe he's fucking on to something."

My smile faded.

"I'm sorry about that," I said softly.

He shrugged.

"You weren't even there."

"And if I had been?" I asked, curious. "What would you have done?"

He blinked.

"I wouldn't have had to do anything," he replied easily. "You would have fucking hit him _for_ me."

"I would _not_!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, no, you would have. I don't know if you've _noticed_, yeah, but you seem to have _very _little control over yourself lately. You're shameless, really," he sniffed.

I arched a brow.

"_I'm_ the shameless one?"

"Don't deny the obvious. But, really, you would have hit him. Hard. And then you would have said something scathing and magnificent and made a perfectly fucking dramatic exit," he said wistfully.

"Given this a little too much thought, have you?"

"I didn't have much else to think about while I was waiting for you to show up."

"You were waiting for me?"

"I thought that you'd come find me after you heard about the fight," he said simply.

I blushed.

"Right."

A long silence followed.

"Can I ask you something, Granger?"

"Of course."

He paused.

"Why _Weasley_?"

"What—_excuse_ me?"

"Weasley," he repeated wryly, helplessly. "_Why_? He's—well, for lack of a better word—fucking _useless_."

"I don't—well, I mean, I can't—"I sputtered.

"I can't say I ever really thought about you two much before now—you always seemed effortlessly fucking boring together—but after the other night, I can't stop wondering about what the fuck you ever saw in him."

I cocked my head to the side, sighing.

"Honestly? I don't know," I replied, relaxing against his chest. "I suppose—well, I suppose it was because he was my best friend. I thought—I thought our relationship would be easy. He knew everything about me, you know? My favorite color, the way I take my tea, where I grew up…it _should_ have been easy. We were always supposed to be together, right?"

He nodded, his chin resting on my shoulder.

"But—it wasn't. It wasn't easy, and we didn't work."

"It was the same with Pansy," he said, his voice a deep, tremulous rumble against my back. "She'd always been around—it seemed pretty fucking inevitable that we'd end up together, especially after she followed me around for five years."

"But?" I prodded.

"But," he continued, splaying his hands across my stomach, "she loved me too much. And I don't mean that in a—a _conceited_ way—although I _should_ mention that I'm pretty fucking loveable—but she wanted more from me than I was willing to give. And when she realized that, she lashed out, and—well."

"She told me to stay away from you, you know."

"Seriously? When?"

"Last night," I replied. "I _think_ she meant to threaten me, but she got—um, distracted."

"I'm sorry. I thought she'd taken the fucking hint, but she's too fucking stupid—"

"It's okay," I said quickly. "_My_ ex beat you up, remember? I think we're even."

He ran his fingers along the edge of my skirt.

"People aren't exactly _thrilled_ about us, are they?"

"No. They aren't. Does it seem selfish of us to not care?" I asked.

"Maybe," he laughed. "Luckily, though, I have a fucking reputation for that. You, though—you're too nice, aren't you? People must think I've corrupted you."

I thought, bitterly, of the things I'd said to Lavender, the things I'd said to Pansy, the things I'd said, even, to _him_.

"I'm not—I'm _not_, though," I argued. "I'm just as selfish as you are. But because I was friends with Harry—our _savior_, or didn't you know?—I was never called _arrogant_, or—or _self-centered_. I was called _brave_."

The words had tumbled out of my mouth awkwardly, jerkily, unplanned—but as they settled between us, heavy and honest, I realized how much I meant them, how much I'd always wanted to say them out loud.

"I know that," he said quietly.

"Don't get Marked tomorrow, Draco."

"Stop it."

"_Please_. Just _listen_ to me."

"I already told you—_this_—whatever's between us—it doesn't _change_ anything."

"Your father doesn't even want you to do it, you had to—to use _me_ as a threat to even get him to agree to _let _you—"

"And how do you think he'd _look_, Granger, if his only son just—just out of fucking nowhere decides to announce to the world, that _yeah_, he's in love with a fucking mudblood, and _no_, he's not getting Marked, not anymore, because—because, well, she _doesn't fucking want him to_? How do you think that would make him feel?"

I stared, stopped breathing—

"You're in love with me?" I whispered.

He snorted angrily.

"I don't—I don't fucking know, Granger. Maybe. Probably. I don't—it doesn't—it doesn't fucking _matter_."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not going to change _anything_. Aren't you listening?"

I turned around to face him; he shut his eyes.

"Two years ago, when you and your stupid fucking friends snuck into the Ministry and—and—_yeah_, alright, my father tried to kill you—do you even _understand_ how embarrassed I was? Do you? _Can_ you? It was like—like _shit_, Potter's not only beating _me_ at everything, he's now taking on my fucking father—that's two whole _generations_ of Malfoy failure. It was—it _is_—humiliating."

"That isn't'—"

"_No_, Granger, _it is_. And getting Marked—it's so much more fucking _complicated_ than just—just blindly hating Harry Potter and wanting to destroy muggles. It's about—it's about my _family_, it's about knowing that no matter how fucking scared I am, how much I don't fucking want to do something, _I have to_, because if I don't—if I don't, I'm turning my back on _everyone_ who's ever loved me."

"Will you—just—_stop_? You're acting like you don't have a _choice_—"

"It isn't a fucking _choice_, Granger. It's—it's _unavoidable_. It's—it's been my future for as long as I've been alive, and maybe that doesn't make any sense to you, because to you, it means I'm evil, to you, it means I've—I've fucking _given up_, or something, but to me—to me, it means…"

"What?" I demanded. "_What_ does it mean to you?"

He clenched his jaw, pushed me away, reached for his shirt, refused to look at me.

"It means I've grown up. It means someone finally fucking _picked me_. D'you understand that? My—my father didn't have to buy a fortune's worth of fucking broomsticks, and—and I didn't have to fight _Potter_ for a spot on the goddamn team, and—and whatever I have left to prove, it's _doable_, yeah, it's _comfortable_, it's what I know _how_ to do—"

"No," I said furiously. "_No_. You don't—you can't—you can't _do_ that, you can't try to make it seem like—like you're a fucking _social outcast_, or something, just looking for _acceptance_ and your—your whole _cause_ isn't evil, or wrong, it's just—just fucking _misunderstood_. Because that's _not true_. It _isn't_. And maybe _you are_, okay, maybe you _are_ a little bit misunderstood, and maybe people don't get that, maybe they don't see you—but—but—it doesn't _matter_ how many good qualities you're hiding behind if you can't fucking see the difference between right and wrong. It _doesn't_."

He studied me, then, his face frozen, his eyes blank.

"So there's a right," he said slowly, "and a wrong. And there's no in-between."

"I don't—"

"I just want a little clarification," he bit out. "Because I need to be _sure_ that you just said something that fucking idiotic."

"You think—you think _basic morality_—the kinds of things fucking—fucking _five year-olds_ are learning—you think that's _stupid_?"

"No," he snorted. "I think it's fucking stupid that you think it's so black and white. That there's a good side and an evil side and absolutely fucking nothing in between. A bit naïve of you, yeah?"

I watched him wearily, suddenly exhausted.

"What do you—what do you _want_, Draco? Really."

He didn't immediately reply.

"I want—I want you to tell me that—that it's _okay_," he finally said, flexing his hands. "I want you to tell me that you'll still be here tomorrow, that you aren't going to leave, ever, that this isn't all—this isn't all in my fucking head. I want you to love me, unconditionally, even if I have a fucking Mark on my arm, even if—even if when it comes down to it, I'm _exactly_ who you've always thought I might be. I want—_you_. I want you every fucking day, and I want you _smiling_, laughing, _happy_, no matter what. Can you do that? _Can_ you?"

I felt tears, salty and hot and foreign, fill my eyes, and I was surprised for a moment, because I didn't cry, I wasn't a crier, I was a—a _fighter_, I got angry, I got even, I didn't get sad, I _didn't_, and what he was saying, what he was asking me to do—I _couldn't_, I _wouldn't_, and he _knew_ that, he had to, because he knew _me_, didn't he—but still, _still_, an awful, throbbing, choking sort of grief was sitting in my throat, waiting to be released, and I couldn't swallow, I couldn't fucking _breathe_, and that _meant _something, it did, it _had_ to, except, except—_why_ was I crying? What was wrong with me?

"I—I _can't_," I stammered, hugging myself. "I just—I _can't_."

And then he did something horrible; he reached forward, brushed his thumb across my cheek, and wiped away the tears.

"I know," he whispered, half-smiling. "But I had to try, right?"

_No_, I thought, confused, bewildered, stunned. _No, you didn't_.

OOO


	16. XV

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

When I woke up the next morning, it was raining. I gazed out the window, watching absent-mindedly as the water splashed against the glass.

"_Hermione_, are you—_oh_, you're still sleeping," Parvati Patil's voice echoed loudly in our small, oval-shaped room.

I winced.

"No, I'm awake," I informed her glumly. "What time is it, anyway?"

"It's half-ten," she replied awkwardly. "But—um—Harry's looking for you. He asked me to check up here, but I thought—I don't know _why_, since you've done nothing but _sleep_ for the past few days—I thought you'd already gotten up."

"Nope," I said icily, raising an eyebrow. "Still in bed."

She bit her lip and squared her shoulders.

"Right—well, it's a Hogsmeade weekend, you know—not that it's going to be any fun, the weather's _abysmal_—so you might want to catch him before he leaves," she supplied helpfully. "Unless you're going with him?"

I knew what she was really asking, of course—if I said 'yes', it meant that I was friends with Harry again, that I'd gotten over my alleged fascination with Malfoy; if I said 'yes', it meant that I'd come to my senses, that my harshly rendered exile was over.

"No," I answered, shaking my head. "I'm not. Just tell him I'll be down in a second, yeah?"

She glanced away.

"Sure," she said, turning towards the door. "Yeah."

Sighing, I slid out from under the sheets and reached for a jumper. What would Harry want to talk to me about? Had Ron finally told him what had happened? I mulled over what I could possibly say to defend myself as I descended the stairs.

"Hey—_there_ you are," Harry exclaimed, exasperated, when he saw me. "When did you start sleeping so late?"

"Dunno," I said evasively. "What's—what's going on?"

"I—ah—well, I have to ask you something," he replied nervously, pushing his glasses back.

"Alright," I said, regarding him curiously.

"Were you—were you actually—" He lowered his voice, glancing stealthily around the mostly empty common room. "Were you actually, you know, _dating_ Malfoy?"

I gulped, wondering how to answer.

"_Dating_ might be the wrong word," I responded slowly, chewing the inside of my mouth. "And—and really, I'm not even sure what to call it—what happened, I mean—it is, it _was_, well, _brief_, to say the least, and—"

"'Mione," he said, shifting his feet. "Ron told me about the other night. And—I—I'm not going to judge you for it, because…"

"Because we're not friends anymore," I finished for him.

He looked uncomfortable.

"I don't know what's going on with you," he said gently. "I haven't, for months, and—and that's okay, I guess. That's how you want it now. But I heard that he…ended things with you, and—well, I might have done something to cause that, and I feel badly about it."

"Oh, Harry, no—no, no, no, that's not—it wasn't—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, swallowing. "You don't owe me any explanations, Hermione."

"Ron might disagree with you on that point."

"Ron's an ass."

I started.

"Did you…have an argument?" I asked carefully.

"Yesterday. After he beat the living shit out of Malfoy. And told me…about you. It wasn't—it _isn't_—his business, or mine, what you do anymore. And we still have two Quidditch games left. I'd prefer that my Keeper wasn't fucking expelled for something so—so _stupid_."

"Oh."

"Anyway. The other night—I might have sent a letter."

"A letter," I repeated.

"A letter. I—I thought you needed protecting, you know? You said—well. I thought Malfoy was just making up ludicrous rumors for the fuck of it, and I thought I might help you out and stop him. So I—I sent a letter."

"A letter," I said again.

"Yeah. It was maybe a bit on the _threatening_ side, yeah, but—I signed it as Lucius Malfoy—"

"Even though you had to have known that he would never actually _believe_ it was from him."

"Well—yeah, I thought he would just take it as a—a _hint_, or something, that, you know, people weren't too bloody happy about the rumors. A reminder, maybe," he explained.

I took a deep breath.

"Harry," I began.

"But then yesterday—Ron told me that you actually _were_, you know, shagging Malfoy—_ugh_, of all people, 'Mione—and then I realized that maybe I'd ruined things for you, which wasn't—wasn't my intention," he finished lamely. "If I'd known—"

"Harry, it wasn't your fault," I said tiredly. "Things weren't—_like that_ between us. What Ron saw…was an—an anomaly. It wasn't important."

He was still for a second, his eyes bright and green and penetrating.

"No offense, 'Mione, but—but if you were _voluntarily_ kissing _Malfoy_—something pretty fucking important had to have happened."

I stared at him, my pulse fluttering.

"It wasn't—it wasn't—" I stammered, stuttered, speechless—because he was right, of course. Something huge, something significant, something _profound_ had happened. Something that self-preservation was urging me to ignore, not name, not bother with; something beautiful, something wonderful, something _permanent_.

"I don't know what he did to make you like him," he said quietly. "He's a prick, and a bully, and I fucking hate him. But life is—unexpected. And unfair. I know that better than anyone. And if…_Malfoy_—" He uttered the name with distaste. "—makes you happy, I don't want to be the one to get in the way of it. I mean—Jesus Christ, I have a _wand_ in my pocket, and I—I do _magic_, I live in a fucking castle…stranger things have happened, I guess, than you and Malfoy."

A muscle in my stomach clenched.

"Are you—are you giving me your blessing, Harry?" I whispered in disbelief.

He scratched his head.

"I might be," he replied, kicking at the edge of the rug. "Don't tell Ron, yeah?"

"More like don't tell _Lavender_," I sniffed.

He grimaced.

"I liked you much better than her, you know."

I giggled.

"I know."

And then he grinned, sadly, and I realized what was happening, what this was leading up to, and I felt my heart slow down, unwind, start beating lethargically, deliberately—because this was good-bye, wasn't it, he just wanted a clean slate—and who could blame him?

He cleared his throat.

"I should—" He waved vaguely. "—get going. I have practice. And then Ginny—she wants to go into Hogsmeade."

"Right, of course," I said rapidly.

He made a move to leave before stopping.

"I just—I want to make sure," he said. "It wasn't the letter, then? That—that ruined things?"

I felt my lips twist.

"It wasn't the letter, Harry," I assured him. "It was…everything else. We—we wouldn't work. For a lot of reasons."

He studied me for a long, drawn-out moment.

"That's _crap_."

I narrowed my eyes, opened my mouth—

"No—_really_, 'Mione, it is. I've known you for _years_ and in all that time I can count on one hand the number of times you've given up. On _anything_. You're so bloody stubborn that it's—it's _annoying_, yeah, it's why you and Ron used to fight so much, you just—just don't let things _go_, ever."

"And?" I demanded, inexplicably stung.

"_And_," he continued, "that's why I don't believe you. You would _never_ be satisfied with, '_We wouldn't work_'. Ever. You'd—you'd take it as a bloody challenge, a problem you needed to solve—and you'd do exactly that. You'd figure it out. That's what you _do_."

"What's your point?" I ground out, irritated.

He shrugged.

"It doesn't add up. You're either lying, or scared—and, well, you've never been a very good liar, have you?"

I looked away.

"But I could be now, right? For all you know?"

His gaze flickered.

"Sure, Hermione."

A prickly silence descended, then, and I felt, inexplicably, like I'd said something wrong, unforgivable, like I'd misspoken so dramatically I couldn't ever take it back.

"It's just—what if I'm wrong about him?" I blurted out.

He squinted at the floor.

"Then you're wrong," he said. "But that's another thing you're not very good at, isn't it? Being wrong, I mean."

I smiled, slightly.

"You're an awfully good friend, Harry."

He fiddled with his glasses.

"Are we still friends, then?"

I paused.

"I didn't lie to you, you know," I confessed. "When you asked me about Malfoy—nothing had happened yet. It's—it's quite a recent development."

"I know."

"You—you _do_?"

"I mean, I figured, yeah. You're not a very good liar, remember?"

"I remember," I said softly.

"Anyway," he grunted. "I should—should go. Really. I'll—be late. For practice."

"Of course."

He hesitated.

"Be careful, yeah?"

I felt the skin around my eyes tighten.

"Yeah, Harry."

He nodded, clumsily, just once, before picking up his broomstick and leaving.

Was Harry right? Was I giving up—too easily, too quickly, just because I was scared? I'd thought, for ages, that life was about calculated risk; taking chances, but making sure the odds were always going to be in my favor.

And Malfoy was a bad bet, a stupid bet. There was more wrong with him than right—he was vindictive, and cruel, and selfish. His favorite word was _fuck_ and he was a terrible listener and—and he was getting _Marked_ in an hour, two hours, it didn't matter when, and—

And I had to stop him.

I stared at my hands, unblinking—ragged pink cuticles and chipped purple nail polish. I was a mess—_everything_ was a mess—and I had to fix it, before it was too late, before it was unfixable.

I took even, measured steps through the castle, trying to calm down, rationalize my actions, make excuses; but there wasn't any logical justification for what I was about to do.

I knew that.

When I reached the entrance hall, I had to push my way through the huge crowd of students waiting to be let out. A well-timed surge of adrenaline crept up on me, then, and I was suddenly violently, viciously impatient, overeager to find Draco and stop him from—

From _what_, though? Ruining himself? Ruining us? Ruining the _possibility _of us? Did it count if I couldn't name it, couldn't touch it, couldn't find any tangible shred of evidence that it even existed? All I had was a gnawing physical certainty that he was meant for more than just a Mark—he was meant for _me_, he had to be, and it didn't matter that I'd never believed in that, because maybe it was just one of those _things_, those things that you thought were imaginary, fictional, straight out of a fairytale—until it happened to you, until you found yourself kissing Draco Malfoy in the Astronomy Tower and understood that _this_ is what the first eighteen years of your life had been leading up to, _this_ is what had been missing, all along, all this time.

And he couldn't throw that away; I couldn't let him.

I was at the door, about to step outside, make a run for it, when I felt a cold, waxy hand on my shoulder.

"Miss Granger," someone drawled, forcibly spinning me around. "Surely you weren't planning on skipping detention?"

Oh, _shit_. How had I forgotten? How had I not realized it was Saturday, it was _Saturday_—

"Of—of course not," I stammered weakly, frantically, my thoughts racing. "I just—there's something I need to do before—it won't take long, really—maybe thirty minutes—I'll just be a bit, um, _late_, Professor, that's all—"

"You have a strange sense of humor, Granger," he replied haughtily, pulling me after him. "Let's _go_."

"No, please, no," I whispered, the words barely audible—_no no no_—I dragged my feet, wide-eyed, jittery, anxious—I felt my blood vessels constrict, collapse, crumple, my breathing grow fierce and ragged, and a desolate sort of panic begin to take over, because he didn't understand, he wasn't _hearing me_, and if he would just _let go of me_, my arm, I could explain, I could, I could make him see—

Someone jostled me, mumbling apologetically, ducking behind a thick curtain of light brown hair, and I looked up, my brain sluggish, before realizing who it was, what it meant—

"_Lavender_!" I shouted, wrenching myself out of Snape's grasp. "Wait!"

She turned, surprised, and I heard Snape grumble.

"Miss Granger, need I remind you—"

"I'll just be a second, Professor," I said hastily, imploringly.

"You have one minute, Miss Granger. _One_."

I swallowed.

"_Lavender_," I said hastily. "I need a favor."

She gaped.

"What's—what's going _on_? You look you're being _arrested_."

"I have detention, but—it doesn't matter. I just—I need you to do something for me."

She furrowed her brow.

"Why _should _I?"

I scowled.

"You owe me a fucking favor, Lavender. Or did you forget?" I demanded urgently. "Please. If you—if you feel _any_ remorse for what you did to me, you'll do this. _Please_."

She frowned at me, her lips pursed, before nodding sharply, angrily.

"What do you need me to do?"

"I just—I need you to distract Snape, okay? I don't care how you do it, I just—I need you to get him away from the dungeons for at least a couple of minutes. Please. So I can leave. As fast as you can. _Okay_?"

"Hermione—I don't—what is this about?" she asked.

My nostrils flared.

"Malfoy."

She paled.

"Oh."

"That's _it_, Granger," Snape snapped, swiftly approaching us and reaching for my elbow. "An extra hour today."

And then he led me away, and Lavender observed, expressionless, and I hoped, hoped, hoped—no, I _prayed_, that thing I hadn't done in years, that thing my mother had always insisted would make me feel better.

It didn't, though; it made me feel worse, it made me feel desperate and cloying and impotent, like one of those girls who waits to be rescued, who can't be bothered to fight her own battles, who sits in bed and cries about the unfairness of fate.

She hadn't mentioned that part.

OOO

Thirty minutes later, it happened; voices, aggressive and shrill, were storming through the nearby hallway, growing louder and louder with every passing moment.

"—can't _believe_ you, Ron, how _could you—_"

It was Lavender.

"_What_—I don't—_what _are you on about, then? I don't even know—"

And Ron.

I watched, surreptitiously, as Snape looked up from his desk, his sallow face pinched and irritated.

"Ridiculous," he muttered, noisily scraping his chair back and shooting me a withering glare. "Don't move an _inch_, Granger."

I smiled grimly.

As soon as he was gone, I crept to the door, hauling it open and looking down the empty corridor.

"—course you know what you _did_, _everyone _knows—"

"—Jesus, Lavender, _what_ are you talking about? This is crazy—"

I dashed away from the sound of their voices, skidding to a halt when I reached an intersection. I waited for a moment, straining my ears to figure out where Lavender had led them.

"—Brown, Weasley, what _exactly_ do you think you're doing down here?"

"I'm looking for—for Hermione Granger!" I heard her shriek—rather believably. "She—she _shagged_ my _boyfriend_!"

"_What_?" Ron bellowed. "I absolutely did _not_, who _told_ you that, was it _her_—Hermione, I mean? It was, wasn't it, she's such a—such a—"

"That's _enough_, both of you—"

I allowed myself a small grin. Ron would have no idea she was making all of it up, would he?

Pressing my back against the icy stone wall, I peered around the corner, moving quickly when I saw that the hallway was empty.

"—no, no, _no_! Where _is_ she, I hate her, _hate her_, she—he—I _know_ she's down here—"

"Miss Brown, calm yourself—"

Their voices faded into silence as I jogged out of the dungeons. I was in an older part of the castle, where Harry had said the Slytherin Common Room was, and—

"_Granger_—what are _you_ doing here?" Pansy Parkinson was standing in front of a nondescript wall, one that I suspected had just closed.

"I don't have time for you," I answered brusquely, continuing down the hall.

"You're looking for Draco, aren't you?" she called after me. "I know where he is."

I stopped.

"Why is it _any_ of your business what I'm doing?" I asked.

She walked towards me slowly, leisurely, swinging her hips.

"Because you're going to try to ruin everything, and you're going to fail," she replied easily. "And that's going to be _so_ lovely to watch."

I rolled my eyes impatiently.

"Get out of the way."

"You don't believe me, do you?" she giggled ominously. "What if I told you that we got back together this morning? Would you believe me, then?"

I froze.

"You didn't."

"Oh, no, we _did_," she responded with obvious relish. "He was rather—rather _sweet_ about it too, said—said we were '_inevitable_' or something. It was _very_ romantic."

That's what he'd said last night, wasn't it? That's what he'd called her, called _them_—inevitable.

"Anyway, you're too late," she went on, sneering. "He left over an hour ago."

I stared at her—at the golden blonde hair, the perfectly arched brows, the milky smooth skin—and I snorted.

"He was right about you," I smirked, shoving roughly past her. "You really are a stupid bitch."

And that was when I began to run.

OOO


	17. XVI

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

I ran until I couldn't—until my muscles were screeching and my breath was razor-sharp and icy pinpricks of pain were shooting through my lungs. I'd made it halfway to Hogsmeade before I collapsed, doubled over and gasping, on the side of the road.

Blistering hot tears of frustration filled my eyes. How could this be happening? This wasn't how it went. It couldn't be. Love stories didn't end with a crying heroine, a pair of torn, muddy tights, and paralyzing disappointment; they just didn't.

They _couldn't_.

But I couldn't keep running. I was exhausted, and I was dizzy, and there was a filmy, unwelcome cloud of certainty hovering over my brain that was telling me to give up, to give in, because even if I didn't want to see it—this wasn't going to go the way I wanted it to.

And even if it did—even if I _did_ somehow manage to convince him to stop, to wait, to not do it—he wouldn't thank me for it. He'd grow to resent me, slowly but surely, and then we would fight, bitterly and often, and he would reach the same conclusion that Ron had, that it wasn't worth it, that _I_ wasn't worth it, because—well, because I _wasn't_.

Because when everything was stripped away, when I was shivering and naked and alone, without artifice, without a hiding place—all that was left was a skinny little girl with a bottomless bundle of insecurities and a newly blurry sense of right and wrong.

I bit down on my lip, roughly, angrily, and got to my feet, wincing at the tightness in my legs. Was it even fair of me? To ask him to give it up?

I gingerly hopped over a puddle as I started walking towards the village. The rain had subsided, but there was still a heavy mist hanging in the air, making it hard to see very far in front of me. As a result, I was surprised when I reached the lamp-lit exterior of Madame Rosmerta's; I thought I'd been much farther away.

I was even more surprised, though, by who I saw trudging towards me, sleek black umbrella in hand.

The resemblance between them shouldn't have shocked me as much as it did; I had, after all, seen them together before. And maybe it was the lighting, or the fog, or the simple fact that I was paying attention—but I could barely tell them apart.

They had the same porcelain-pale skin, and the same large, intense gray eyes; the same pointed, aristocratic features, and the same bright blond hair, and the same tall, slender build. Narcissa Malfoy had managed to produce an exact replica of her husband, right down to the way they both smirked—archly, proudly, with just the tiniest sliver of perfectly straight teeth.

They were walking down the street, Lucius's hand clapped over Draco's shoulder, his fingertips pressed down so hard they were chalk-white and waxy. As they got closer, I swiftly ducked into the Three Broomsticks, but not before Lucius Malfoy noticed, his lips drooping into a thoughtful frown as he passed me.

I waited one, then two, then three seconds before deciding to follow them.

I trailed them for what felt like ages; they had made a series of complicated turns in the residential part of town, but we were now beginning to leave even that behind, the stretches of barren, empty grass between houses growing longer and longer.

They finally stopped in front of a decrepit Georgian mansion, the spindly iron gates rusted over and hanging open. I watched as Lucius led the way around the side and eyed a gigantic moss-covered fountain in the garden. It was broken and stained, clearly having seen much better days, but he stopped in front of it anyway; I took the opportunity to move closer, stooping behind an overgrown hedge when Draco glanced back.

"—your wand, it's through here," Lucius was saying. "But first, I'd like to have a word with you."

I noticed, then, that they were standing in a neglected, brick-paved courtyard. Lucius motioned to a pair of white French doors that looked like they had, at one point, been quite beautiful.

Draco slammed open the doors, not bothering to close them; I crept in after him, slipping behind a tall, musty armoire in the front corner and peeking around the unpolished surface, startled by the sight that awaited me.

We were in a small, rundown sitting room that appeared to have been abandoned by its owners decades earlier. There was a half-open window next to the French doors, its ragged velvet curtains billowing weakly, and a scratched-up wooden bench pushed up against what I guessed was a closet door. The entire place reeked of disuse: the wainscoting was chipped, the wallpaper was peeling, and there was a thick layer of dust covering every available surface like a blanket.

"The muggle girl—Granger, isn't it?—she's very pretty," Lucius remarked casually.

There was a beat of tense silence; I flushed.

"You saw her? Where?"

"She was on her way into that filthy little pub—the one owned by the gypsy woman."

"Did she—did she say anything to you?"

"No, of course not," he replied, sounding amused. "You were there. I'm surprised you didn't notice her."

Draco snorted.

"I'm surprised you _did_."

Lucius sighed.

"We should talk, Draco."

"We're already talking, _Dad_."

"D'you actually like her? Or was it all to get me to agree to this? Your last letter—it was hard to tell through all the swearing. Your mother was horrified."

I held my breath.

"She wasn't meant to read that."

"Well, she _did_."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"So, what, is she not going to send me any cookies this week?" he sneered.

"_Draco—_"

"Sorry," he muttered quickly. "I'm—I'm having kind of a weird morning. Tell Mum—tell her that even though I know the house elves bake them, they're the best cookies I've ever had, yeah?"

"They _are_ good, aren't they?"

"Fuck, yes."

Lucius's lips twitched.

"Careful."

Draco cleared his throat.

"So…what are we talking about?"

Lucius glanced away.

"The muggle girl—Potter's friend—your mother—she wanted me to tell you that you're welcome to bring her home for a visit," he said awkwardly. "If you'd—if you'd like."

My jaw dropped.

"You must be fucking joking."

"Ah—no, not a joke," he replied briskly. "She'd—_we'd_—very much like to meet her. If that's something you're interested in. I don't—well."

"You're seriously telling me to bring my muggle-born girlfriend home _for a visit_—the day I get Marked? Are you both fucking crazy?"

Lucius's mouth tightened.

"It was just a suggestion. Besides, we thought—"

"You thought if I said yes I wouldn't go through with this. Right?" Draco scowled. "You're fucking unbelievable, Dad."

Lucius didn't answer.

"You tried to kill her, you know. Two years ago. Remember that?"

"Vividly." His voice was clipped.

"And now you want her over for tea. You're such a —you're such a fucking _hypocrite_."

"_No_, Draco, it isn't—" he broke off.

"It isn't _what_, Dad?"

There was a pregnant pause.

"Your mother and I…we never believed you needed much guidance—you were just always so stubborn, so sure of yourself—and because of that, we were—well, _lenient_ with you. We—we just never imagined you were capable of making any mistakes. Which was, I believe, an error."

Draco's head jerked back.

"Don't look at me like that—because you know exactly what I mean. Draco. I was just like you at eighteen—self-absorbed and patronizing and so, so _sure _that I knew what I wanted."

"Don't get too carried away with the compliments, Dad. _Really_."

"I'm not—that is—I don't mean that any of those are _bad_ things, Draco. They aren't. They're _normal_. That is exactly who you're supposed to be right now, at your age. That's—that's what I want for you." He hesitated. "I'm not doing this right. I don't—I don't know how to say this."

"Just—get it over with, yeah? We're going to be late."

Lucius was quiet for a long, uncertain minute.

"You were an abysmal baby, you know—spent all your time crying. I hardly got any sleep at all the first six months of your life. And your mother—your mother absolutely _refused_ to let the house elves touch you, if you can believe it. Thought they'd break you."

"What's your point?" Draco demanded tightly.

"My point—my point is that I—I cared about a lot of different things before you came along. I was—rash. I made choices that I didn't—well, I didn't understand the _enormity_ of them. And then you were born, and I…I didn't care, so much, about the invasion of the mudbloods. I didn't care about a war that, quite frankly, I wasn't prepared to fight."

Draco made a fist with his right hand, his knuckles turning bright white from the pressure.

"My priorities changed rather dramatically after that. I wanted to play with you, teach you to read, take your side when you fought with the neighbor's boy—who were they? The Zabinis? _Awful_ family—and I wanted you to respect your legacy, of course, and understand how proud you should be of being a Malfoy. But I didn't—"

He stopped.

"Draco, all I wanted to do was be a good father to you. That was all I cared about. And I—I managed to—to fuck it up, despite that."

"Dad, you were, you _are_, stop it—"

"No. No—I'm not. I—I _glorified _this, I made you think it was something you should want for yourself, and—and I don't know, maybe I never thought you'd grow up, maybe I never wanted you to—but when I think about the things I've _done_, the things I—_saw_—I just—you're my son, I can't possibly want that for you, I can't possibly allow you—"

"_Allow me_?" Draco repeated. "Come on, it's a little late for that."

Lucius smiled sadly.

"You're right, of course. It's much too late for that."

And then I thought, for a fleeting, hopeful moment, that he might continue, that he might try harder to stop him—but he didn't continue, and he didn't try harder, he just—he _hugged him_, gruffly, uncomfortably, and he patted him on the back, and that was it, apparently, that was all he was going to say, all he was going to do.

I exhaled slowly, anxiously, my palms damp. How was I supposed to stop this?

"Well," Lucius said with forced cheer. "We should go, Draco. It's time."

Draco stared up at him, his face a mask of confusion, and fear, and maybe even a little bit of anger—he'd wanted his father to give him a reason, I realized. He'd wanted him to explain why it was a good idea, this thing he was doing, why it was going to differentiate him from everyone else, make him special; he'd wanted him to tell him that it was sacred, important, something to be proud of.

And now that Lucius had done none of that, he wanted to know _why_.

"Wait," he said quietly, unsteadily.

I dug my fingernails into the flaky beige plaster of the wall behind me.

"Yes?"

"What did you mean—you didn't finish—when you said you wanted me to—to understand my—_our_—legacy, but you didn't want—_what_? What didn't you want?"

Lucius studied him intently.

"I—I didn't want you to grow up like this. Oh, of course we—your mother and I—we always hoped you'd be proud of where you came from. And for most of your childhood, we thought—_everyone_ thought—that the Dark Lord was gone. We didn't think he would come back, and because of that…we—_I_—was perhaps _overzealous_ in teaching you about our ancestors. I never believed it could ever come to this, and—I just—I didn't think it was possible."

"Right."

"And—the muggle girl—I'll be honest. I wasn't happy when I heard rumors about you—and her. She isn't what I wanted for you. But if she—if she's what _you_…_want_, then—of course I—_we_—will support you."

Draco swallowed.

"But Draco—for God's sake, just _wait_. _Wait_ to do this. This isn't something you can just take back if you decide you don't want it." He slapped his forearm. "You will have it _forever_, do you understand that? You will wake up every morning and wait for the itch, the tingle, and you'll—you'll learn to _dread it_, you'll learn to—"

"Just—stop it, Dad. _Stop it_. I don't fucking—I already made up my mind."

Lucius grimaced.

"Of course."

"So—_what_, are you going to be, like—fucking _disappointed_ in me, or something? If I do this?"

A muscle pulsed in his neck.

"No, I'm not going to be _disappointed_. You're old enough—well, it's not my choice. It's yours. And as you've mentioned, you already made up your mind."

Draco crossed his arms over his chest.

"What does Mother think? She—she never mentions it around me."

"She…worries."

When Draco didn't reply, Lucius sighed and turned towards the French doors that led outside.

"I'll be out there, Draco. Whenever you're ready. Just—take a few minutes to think, won't you?"

And then he left, his black cloak swishing behind him.

Draco stood silently in the middle of the room, his eyes closed, his shoulders hunched, before letting out a roar of frustration. I watched, entranced, as he punched his fist into the powdery plaster behind him—and then I stepped forward.

He gaped at me.

"What the _fuck_—_Granger_? What are you—how did you—" he stammered, visibly angry, shaking out his hand.

"I—I followed you and your father," I replied shakily. "I hid—right there, behind the wardrobe."

"You hid. And listened—to everything. You heard—fucking everything."

My mouth was dry.

"Y—yes."

"_Why_?"

"I—I wanted to talk to you," I answered honestly, glancing nervously at the doorway.

"You—you wanted to _talk_ to me," he repeated. "Please tell me this is a fucking joke. _Please_."

"I just—"

"No, I _know_ what you want to fucking _talk_ to me about, Granger. I'm not a fucking idiot. But—but _seriously_, don't fucking bother, okay?"

I felt my jaw jut forward.

"You know what—_no_, I _am_ going to fucking _bother_," I hissed, glaring at him. "Because—because you're _better_ than this—this dirty little room, and I can't just sit back and _watch you_—condemn yourself to—to a lifetime of—_regret_. Listen to your father, and how much he wishes he could _take it back_—"

"Don't you _dare_ fucking bring him into this."

I raised an eyebrow.

"_Too late_."

He stalked towards me, his skin splotchy and red, his eyes glittering furiously.

"My father—my father has _accepted_ my _choice_," he said coldly. "Or maybe you couldn't hear that part?"

I snorted.

"Only after fifteen agonizing minutes of trying to convince you to _wait_," I pointed out.

"_Exactly_," he thundered. "He wanted me to _wait_. Not—not fucking swear off my family and skip into the goddamn sunset with a mudblood."

I flinched.

"I'm not asking—I'm not asking for that," I retorted. "I just—why _won't_ you wait? Wait and see what happens—with us, with everything."

He looked at me with distaste.

"Why _should_ I? And—and let me make sure I have this right—if things were to work out with you, I would then have a fucking _reason_ to abandon my family? Yeah? Is that right?"

No, _no_—that wasn't it, that wasn't what I was saying—

"That isn't what I meant!"

"No? Then what the fuck _did _you mean, Granger?"

I stared at him, nonplussed.

"It isn't—it isn't between me and your _family_," I said beseechingly. "It's—it's about right and wrong, about—about signing up to fucking fight for someone _evil_, and—and you're _not_, not evil, I mean, you're better than all of that, and—"

"Oh, piss off already," he bellowed, flapping a hand in my direction.

I blinked, rapidly, disbelievingly, because—because this wasn't what was supposed to happen, this wasn't how he was supposed to react—

"No! I'm not—not going to _piss off_. You aren't _listening_ to me."

He ran a violent hand through his hair.

"I don't _want_ to fucking listen to you, _okay_?"

"_No_, not _okay_," I replied heatedly. "_None_ of this is _okay_."

He scoffed.

"I'm not even going to fucking tell you that you're too late, because that—that would imply that there was a fucking _chance_ you could have done something to stop me. And there wasn't. D'you fucking _get_ that, Granger? Do you?"

"I just—I can't—you're _better_ than this," I choked out, wincing when I realized that I was repeating myself, that I was barely even making a point anymore.

Or had I just run out of ways to say it?

"Will you—will you just _stop_? I don't even know why you're fucking here. You don't get it. You _won't_ get it. Ever. And—and fucking _preaching_ at me, when you _must_ know I don't give a shit—it just seems like a giant waste of fucking time, doesn't it?" he snarled.

"No," I mumbled, dismayed.

His face softened, just the tiniest bit, and I felt my cheeks burn.

"Just—just _go_, Granger," he said gently. "Please."

And that was when I understood, when everything finally fell together and I recognized what he'd been trying to tell me, all along—love was unconditional, unreserved, something you did wholly and completely and without second thoughts. You can't pick and choose the things you like about someone—it's all or nothing, all of the time, and maybe I was being stupid, maybe I was making a mistake, but—

"I love you," I whispered, shrugging helplessly. "No strings attached. No ultimatum. I—I love _you_, even with a Mark, even with that horrible fucking smirk on your face. I love you, even though it doesn't make any sense, even though—even though—even though I _shouldn't_."

His expression flickered.

"Why?"

"Why—" I repeated, incredulous. "_Why_? Because—because—you're mean to Pansy, and you punched Ron, without wanting to, without thinking, and—and you didn't even know Lavender's _name_ and—you have messy handwriting, and—and you smile like you mean it, and despite everything you say, and everything you do, you—you know exactly who you are, you _do_, and you—you don't apologize for it."

He clenched his jaw, closed his eyes.

"So if I walked out there, and—and fucking _did it_, right now, just like that—you'd still be standing here when I came back?"

I swallowed, my stomach twisting itself into knots.

"Yeah," I replied, my voice thin. "I would."

And that was when he changed, right in front of me—his posture relaxed, his back straightened, and he took two swift steps towards me, his hands clasping my face before I had the chance to even _blink_, and then his lips found mine, ferociously, urgently, and—

I pushed him backwards, my fingers groping at the buttons on his pants, until he was sitting on the bench blocking the door. His eyes widened as I climbed on top of him, my thighs straddling his waist, my skirt pulled up, to the side—and then I ground my hips against his, just to see what it might do, just to see how it might feel—and he groaned.

The friction made me think that the cotton of my underwear was too thin, too thick, too _in the way_, and surely just pressing against him couldn't feel this good, it _couldn't_, but then I did it again, slowly, no, quickly, that graceful erotic rolling motion that was making me feel light-headed, confused—but no, _not_ confused, because his teeth were latched onto my shoulder, biting through my shirt, and his hands were frantic, grasping at my backside, kneading, clutching, and right before he slid inside me, he moved his body in some magical, ethereal way that made me squirm recklessly, helplessly, and then—

I could only focus on the little things. The way the sunlight was glancing in from the tiny room's only window, creating long, premature shadows on the dilapidated floor; the way the weather-beaten wood of the bench creaked with every thrust, every shift, every breath; the way salty, lukewarm beads of sweat slid between my breasts, a sensual reminder that _I_ was doing this, _I_ was taking myself—no, both of us, I was taking _both_ of us somewhere else, somewhere better, somewhere we couldn't be followed.

And when it was over, when I'd cried out and he'd exhaled anxiously, frenetically—I hugged him close, thinking, blearily, that if I let him go for even a fraction of a second, I would float away, _he _would float away, and this—this moment, this microscopic, infinitesimal fragment of time—it would be lost, forever, like it hadn't even existed.

And that felt like it would be a tragedy.

"I love you," he said simply.

"I thoughtyou might."

He grinned into my neck.

"Who would've thought?"

"No one, I'm pretty sure." I paused. "So…"

"Yeah?" he yawned.

"Are you…" I trailed off.

"Am I…"

"Going out there?" I finished, leaning back to study him.

He furrowed his brow.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Granger?"

"I don't—"

He shook his head.

"I don't know if you realized, yeah, but I'm planning on locking you in my bedroom for, like, _all_ of the foreseeable future…and, _seriously_, if that fucking Mark glowed, or burned, or whatever the fuck it does, and interrupted us—well, I'd rather not find out what happens when you tell the Dark Lord to go fuck himself, you know? Not to mention—"

He stopped talking abruptly, his eyes narrowed—and that was when a frosty coil of fear wrapped itself around my heart and started to squeeze, tighter and tighter and tighter.

Because the doorknob—the one right next to us, the one that we'd thought led to nowhere—had started to rattle.

OOO


	18. XVII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

We looked at each other, confounded, as someone then began to pound on the door.

_Thump_.

_Thump._

_ Thump._

"Go stand over there," he instructed me quietly, motioning towards the far wall. "And _don't move_."

_Thump_.

I climbed off of his lap, my thoughts frozen, and scurried away, forcing myself to concentrate on pointless things, mundane things—the way my skirt swished around my thighs, scratchy wool on soft skin; the way the wallpaper I pressed up against smelled faintly like mildew and vinegar, unpleasant and stale.

_Thump_.

_Thump_.

He took a deep breath before reaching forward warily and untwisting the lock, immediately jumping back as it clicked into place. He edged in front of me, his arm outstretched, and waited, wand out, for the door to open.

"Who's there?" he shouted, his voice rough.

Silence, thick and anxious, followed his question.

"_Malfoy_? Is that you?"

I went still.

"_Harry_?"

Draco spun around to face me, his eyes wide.

"_Potter_?"

"Is that—is that _Hermione_? Where am I?" Harry called back. "I'm—well, I'm _stuck_. You wouldn't mind—uh—opening the door? Please?"

Speechless, I shook my head before realizing that he couldn't see me.

"It's unlocked," I said, ducking around Draco and striding purposefully towards the closet.

"Oh—" Harry said sheepishly, bursting through the door, covered in dust. "I—I probably should've checked that, yeah?"

"How did you—what are you—" I paled, remembering what Draco and I had just done. "How long were you in there?"

Bright red splotches appeared on his cheeks.

"Just a few minutes," he mumbled.

"Christ," Draco muttered.

"I'm—I was supposed to meet Ginny," Harry explained weakly. "But practice ran late, yeah, and I thought I'd use this—" He produced a yellowing sheet of parchment, the Marauder's Map; I noticed a glimmer around his pockets and realized he'd also brought his invisibility cloak. "—and take a shortcut. I, ah, ended up…in there. And the tunnel caved, and I couldn't reach my wand, and I…I didn't realize it was you."

"How inconvenient," Draco cut in.

They eyed each other with equal parts embarrassment and skepticism.

"Malfoy," Harry nodded at him, his neck tense.

"Potter."

I gaped at them, marveling that they could even get words out; how were they not horrified, absolutely and completely? How were they able to stand there and glower at each other, like it was any other day, like a line hadn't been crossed, a line that—well, a line that was invisible, to be sure, but still _there_, still _important_. It was like sharing a hotel room with your parents, and hearing, right before you drifted to sleep, a rustle, a whisper, a telltale creak of the mattress; it was _unnatural_, disturbing and dreadful, and _why_ was Harry staring at me like that?

"Are you alright?" he asked doubtfully. "You look…pink."

Draco turned towards me, his eyes cloudy with concern.

"Hermione?"

I opened my mouth, hoping that something comprehensible would emerge.

"I don't—I can't—what is _wrong_ with you?" I demanded. "_Both_ of you."

"_What_?"

"You—you—you _heard_ us," I managed to say, pointing at Draco. "How are you not—"

"Heard you—wait, _what_? No, no, no, no," he assured me swiftly. "_No_. Hermione. I heard you _talking_, and even then, I only heard that last bit, what _he_ said, something about telling the Dark Lord to fuck off—else I would have recognized your voice."

I pursed my lips.

"So…you didn't…"

"_No_! I don't even want to _think_ about—_no_," he finished, shuddering. "I did _not_."

I groaned.

"Oh, _God_. I'm an _idiot_."

Draco grinned.

"Thought you might figure it out."

"How did you—how did _you_ know what he meant, then?" I asked accusingly.

He shrugged.

"He didn't go for my throat, did he?"

I blinked.

"Oh."

"But, really," Harry said, brushing his shoulders off. "I should get going. Where _are_ we? Are we far from the village?"

"Quite far, actually," I answered hastily, thinking about Lucius Malfoy pacing in the courtyard. "It might be faster for you to just go back that way."

Harry looked at me oddly.

"Right," he said slowly. "Sure. I'll just—I'll just need help moving some of this out of the way—"

He motioned towards the closet; Draco glared.

"You could at least say _please_, Potter," he sneered, throwing open the door and beginning to kick debris to the side.

"I wasn't asking _you_, Malfoy," Harry shot back, hauling out a chunk of plaster and shoving Draco to the side. "Doubt we'd even be on speaking terms if you weren't shagging my best—"

"_Seriously_?" I rolled my eyes, exasperated. "For God's sake—you two are _wizards_. Or did you forget? You don't—" I waved my wand in their direction. "—even need to—" There was a loud crash. "—_lift_ anything."

They both stared at the newly exposed tunnel.

"_Oh_."

"Right. Should've probably—right."

I smiled.

"_Anyway_. Harry. You should probably go find Ginny, yeah?" I reminded him.

"Yeah, I should—" he started to say.

"_Get in the fucking closet, Potter_," Draco interrupted suddenly, pushing him away and glancing quickly across the room.

And that was when I heard them—voices. Growing louder. Coming towards us, from outside.

I made a move towards the closet, thinking to hide; but I was too slow, and the French doors were opened too fast, and before I could get there, Draco had kicked the door shut behind Harry, shooting me a panicked look before turning towards our intruders.

"Dad, I—" He broke off.

"Hello, Draco, darling," a shrill, eerily familiar female voice cooed. "How have you been?"

Bellatrix Lestrange stood in front of us, twirling her wand; I felt the blood freeze in my veins, my muscles lock—and suddenly, without warning, I knew what real fear tasted like.

"Aunt—Aunt Bella," he choked out, trying to recover. "I'm…well."

"So I've heard," she said, turning her attention to me. "And…_you_. The Potter boy's friend—the mudblood. I forget your name."

I didn't bother replying.

"No? Nothing? What _awful_ manners she has, Lucius," she continued, tittering. "But—and, really, this is rather an important question, Mudblood, so you might want to answer—what is she _doing_ here?"

Draco stepped forward, attempting to shield me.

"She was meeting me," he supplied defensively. "I asked her to."

"You—_asked_ her to? My dear, deluded nephew—you don't _ask_ people like her to do things. You _tell _them. Or kill them. It's a matter of preference, I suppose. But _what_ has your mother been teaching you? I ought to have a word with her."

"Bella," his father interjected haughtily. "Surely this isn't the time."

"Oh, of course, of course," she said dismissively. "Although—I should mention that I'm not _entirely_ surprised to see her here. We've heard rumors, you know."

Lucius went white.

"Have you?" he asked casually.

"Mmmhmm," she drawled happily. "Incredibly distressing news—I'm sure you can relate, Lucius."

"Of—of course," he stammered. "Incredibly distressing."

Draco gritted his teeth.

"Will you both _stop it_? I'm fucking standing right here."

"Such _language_, sweetheart! Your mother—"

"My _mother_ would wonder why you're picking on a—a _friend_ of mine. Terrible manners, isn't it?"

Lucius shut his eyes, tightly; Bellatrix cocked her head to the side.

"A _friend_ of yours, you say?"

"_Yes_," he said angrily—and even I could see that he shouldn't continue, he shouldn't keep going, that she was approaching him with the _strangest_ expression in her eyes—"A _friend_. Surely I'm allowed to have them?"

"Of course you are, darling," she replied genially. "Or—you _would_ be, if you didn't appear to have a worrying affinity for…_scum_."

His nostrils flared.

"She isn't—"

"Bella—"

"Not now, Lucius," she cut him off dreamily. "I think I may have to teach your son a bit of a lesson today."

"That isn't—"

"No, Lucius, it very clearly _is_."

She peered at Draco, her brow furrowed.

"Draco, dearest, what's wrong? Are you unhappy with us? Have we done something wrong?"

He snorted.

"No—"

"No?" she asked quickly. "Then why would you want to hurt us?"

"I don't—"

"Oh, _good_," she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "That's _so_ good to hear, darling. So if you just want to grab your things, we should get going—it's your special day. Or did you forget? Lucius, I _told_ you I should have sent a letter—"

"I didn't forget. But I don't—"

"You don't what, dearest?"

"I don't _want_ to—to fucking do this," he replied furiously.

Bellatrix was quiet for a seemingly endless minute.

"What are you doing here, Mudblood?" she finally demanded.

"Bella, surely—"

"Shut up, Lucius," she said firmly, her gaze never leaving my own. "Well? _What_—_are_—_you_—_doing_—_here_? Are you trying to stop my nephew from fulfilling his promise to me? To all of us? Is that it?"

"You can't make him—" I burst out.

The stinging, ringing sound of the slap echoed awkwardly in the small room; I lay sprawled on the floor, my skin burning, my jaw aching, and scowled blearily up at her.

"You stupid, _stupid_ girl. Of _course_ I can make him," she hissed menacingly, a strand of wild black hair escaping its bun. "And I shouldn't _have_ to make him—he knows his duty. He knows his family. He knows what will happen to us if he doesn't follow through. He knows what will happen to _him_."

She paused.

"So. I'll ask you one more time, Mudblood. _What_ are you doing here?"

My heart thumped mercilessly against my chest—what had we been playing at? Melodramatically romantic assertions that he was a _good person_—in theory, yeah, that sounded pretty, didn't it? But dying wasn't pretty. Dying wasn't something I'd even thought was possible.

How naïve had I been? When I'd refused, on principle, to listen to his arguments, his reasoning, his blind belief that something bad was bound to happen if he didn't go through with this. I'd been so sure, then, that I was right—I'd been so confident that good would triumph over evil, like it should, like it was meant to.

If I'd just left him alone, let him go, understood that maybe, sometimes, I _didn't_ know better, know best—if I'd done that, would this be happening? Would he be faced with this decision, this life-or-death decision, with his father staring up at him, pale and desperate, and Bellatrix Lestrange brandishing her wand, smug and threatening, and me—me, sitting on the ground, scared and silent, a bruise blossoming across the side of my face. If I'd just—just _stopped_, admitted defeat, bothered to pay attention to what everyone was always telling me—that I was an arrogant egomaniac incapable of admitting I was wrong, even when it was obvious, more than obvious—if I'd done just that, would this not be happening?

I wasn't dumb—I knew that Lucius Malfoy would rather his son be Marked, alive, than die a martyr. This fight wouldn't be three against one—or maybe it would be, if Draco came to his senses and realized that there was a very big difference between defending me against Pansy Parkinson and defying the Dark Lord on my behalf.

Because the situation I'd put him in, put us both in—it was impossible.

If he said yes, if he agreed to it, he would transform again, turn back into the boy that I'd hated, the boy that I'd mocked, the boy that I'd always known—had to have known—was still there, no matter what he said, no matter what I wanted to see.

And if he said no, if he refused it, she would kill him. Kill his family. More than likely kill me.

"He was—we were saying goodbye," I said loudly, abruptly. "He was on his way out. To—to meet you."

Bellatrix quirked her dry, peculiarly dark lips.

"Oh, _was he_? That's wonderful news. Isn't it, Lucius?"

Lucius bowed his head in agreement; but not before his eyes darted to mine, surprised and anxious and grateful, all at the same time.

"Shouldn't we go, Bella? It's clear the girl is useless right now," he pointed out, sounding bored.

She studied me intently, tapping a fingernail against her pronounced, pointed chin.

"You're right," she replied slowly. "She is."

And then she smirked, turning to clutch Draco's arm.

"I'm not going to kill you today," she told me, almost apologetically. "The Dark Lord would be displeased if I…made a scene. I'm sure you understand."

I felt my breath catch, surrender, stick resolutely to my tongue.

"Next time, though?" she continued, as if we were—as if we were making plans for _dinner_, tea, something innocuous and casual and _normal_.

And that was when I snapped.

"You mean if Voldemort lets you?" I responded sweetly. "Pathetic, really, that you can't do as you please. I mean, I'm right _here_—I'll even toss this, make things easy. After all, you've had trouble against it in the past, haven't you?"

I threw my wand away, to the side, spreading my arms out expectantly; her grip on Draco tightened as she glared at me.

"How dare _you_—a, a, _muggle_, speak his name," she seethed, jolting towards me.

"How _dare_ I?" I asked, letting out a bark of laughter. "So long as I don't _cause a scene_, I imagine there's plenty I'd dare to do right now. Go ahead. _Try me_."

Draco was watching, his expression flickering between disbelief and amusement and terror. Lucius, though, stepped in front of me, the bottom of his cloak brushing the tips of my shoes.

"Bella," he said urgently. "We should go—she isn't important. She's practically still a child."

"Rather uppity for a child, isn't she?" Bellatrix asked, frowning.

"Next time," he said simply.

She sighed, straightening her shoulders and turning towards the doors.

"You're right, of course," she mused. "But—still…would anyone _really_ miss her? It's hard to imagine."

I saw Draco jerk backwards.

"She's still a student," Lucius reminded her. "We can't afford that right now. Let's just—let's just do what we came for."

"Oh, alright," she grumbled, pushing open the doors, Draco in tow.

"Dad, wait—"

"Not now, Draco," Lucius hissed, elbowing him. "_Go_."

And then they were gone, and I was alone, almost, and I was listening to the stones in front of the fountain grind together—a hidden passageway, then. That's how they would take him.

That's how he would leave.

"'Mione?" Harry asked, cautiously emerging from the closet.

I flinched.

"What?" I snapped.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," I replied automatically.

"No, no, I know—that isn't what I meant. I meant—I meant that I'm sorry about…Malfoy. Er—Draco. And all of…this."

"All of this," I repeated wryly.

"Yeah."

"It doesn't matter, Harry," I said sullenly, kicking at the curled-up edge of a faded Persian carpet.

"I think it might."

I didn't answer.

"I just—are you okay? Really."

I wanted to shout at him, then, that _no_, no, I wasn't fucking _okay_, that none of this was _okay_ and I blamed him for it, I did, because if he hadn't barged in like he had, maybe we would have already been gone when Bellatrix Lestrange showed up, maybe we would have already left, been halfway back to the castle, back to safety; and no, it wasn't fucking _okay_ that Draco was getting Marked, right now, because of Harry fucking Potter and his stupid _stupid_ map, and it wasn't _okay_ that I couldn't stop it, couldn't stop _them_, and it wasn't _okay_ that we were going to be over before we'd even started, that I'd lost him before I'd even_ had_ him.

"I'm fine," I replied stiffly, glancing away.

He sighed.

"Hermione—"

"No," I interrupted harshly, angrily. "I _am_, Harry—I'm _okay_. Because I should have known better, I see that now, and—and what did I expect, _really_? That somehow we could just _ignore_ the fact that his father is a—a _Death Eater_, and they all want _you_ dead—and me, can't forget about that—and—how could I have thought, even for a second, that there wouldn't be consequences, wouldn't be repercussions, for what I was asking him to do?"

"I don't—"

"The _answer_, Harry," I continued, ignoring him, "is that I couldn't have. I couldn't have thought any of that, or else—or else I'd be _blind_. Blind and stupid. And I'm neither of those things. I never have been. So—so _yes_, Harry, I'm okay. _Really_."

He swallowed nervously.

"Thank you," he said quietly, reaching forward to squeeze my hand. "Thank you for lying for me and—and lying _to_ me, just now. But—Hermione, I know you, remember? And you're not okay."

And maybe it was the dust, floating inconspicuously in the air, or the way his voice, soft and deep, melted through my defenses, rather like ice cream in the sun; or maybe it was the way I bit my lip, trying my hardest not to cry out, or the way I tasted blood, thick and metallic and nauseating, and wanted to retch.

Whatever it was, it made me turn towards him, helplessly, and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, shakily, and blurt out, recklessly—

"It isn't fair, Harry—it isn't fucking _fair_—I did what I was supposed to, I made the right choice, I—_no_, no, _no_, I didn't even have a choice, did I, she didn't give me one—and I just, I just—I feel like I finally found something, you know? Like I—I finally found something I'd been looking for—for ages and ages, and then—and then my mum came out and told me that no, I couldn't have it, it wasn't mine, I didn't get to keep it—and—and—it's just so fucking _unfair_, isn't it?"

He watched me sadly, his gaze steady even as my face crumpled.

"It _is_ unfair," he agreed gently.

"What do I _do_, though? Let him go? Let them—let them _win_?"

He took a deep breath.

"No, Hermione. That's not what you do."

"Then—then _what_?"

He stooped down to pick up my discarded wand before handing it back to me.

"You fucking fight back."

OOO


	19. XVIII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: The quote I use in this chapter is from Petrarch's Sonnet XII—there's a variety of different translations, and the one I chose to use was done by Francis Wrangham (quite a long time ago, haha). Anyway. Enjoy!

OOO

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

By the time we rushed out to the courtyard, they were gone.

"D'you know where they might have gone?" Harry asked me, swiping a chunk of thick black hair off his forehead.

I pointed to the fountain, grudgingly admiring its forlorn, decaying beauty; it was monstrously huge, made out of a pale gray stone littered with bright specks of silver. Moss-covered puddles dotted the bottom of the basin, slimy, potent reminders of its lustrous beginnings. A Grecian statue stood tall and proud in the center—a woman, pretty in a generic sort of way, wrapped in a toga, her mouth left wide open, presumably to accommodate a long-gone stream of water. Her eyes were mostly blank, almond shaped and flat, but there was something strangely expressive about them, a masterfully executed upward tilt at the corners, as if she were about to smile, about to laugh, but had been caught, captured, before she'd been able to let anyone else in on the joke.

"They used that," I answered, narrowing my eyes at the statue. "Look—there's something—I think—d'you see that? On her arm?"

He peered closer, scrunched his nose up, and nodded.

"Yeah, there's something written there," he replied briskly. "Can you get closer?"

I climbed onto the fountain ledge, dropping down into the empty basin. I squinted at the statue's arm, marveling at her long, clean, precisely carved lines; but there, there it was, an inscription:

_And still I bless the day, the hour, the place,_

_When first so high mine eyes I dared to rear._

"It's—it's _Petrarch_," I exclaimed, surprised.

"I'm not going to pretend I know what that is, Hermione."

"He was an Italian poet," I explained, stepping gingerly around the puddles and returning to Harry's side. "Famous for his sonnets."

"Fantastic. What does he have to do with any of this?" he asked impatiently.

"I'm not sure," I said. "All I remember about him is that he was rather unfortunately besotted with a woman called Laura. It was unrequited and…from a distance. I always found his poetry sort of—well, sort of _creepy_."

"Could she—" He motioned towards the statue. "—be this Laura person?"

"She could be," I replied. "But—well, even if she was, what would that tell us?"

"Dunno. Did Malfoy mention anything—ah—before I got there?"

"No, but—d'you think it might be a riddle? Or maybe I'm reading it too literally."

"_The day, the hour, the place_," he repeated slowly, thoughtfully. "Not very subtle, is it?"

"The next line has to do with her eyes, though," I pointed out, tapping my fingers against the tops of my thighs. "And I heard Lucius Malfoy say something to Draco about using a wand…"

"Maybe it's like Diagon Alley?" he suggested. "You have to tap the right spot and say just the right thing?"

"Doesn't that seem—well—just a little too obvious?" I asked doubtfully.

He shrugged.

"Probably, but it doesn't hurt to try."

He vaulted over the side of the fountain, deftly twirling his wand as he studied the statue's face.

"Looks like she's laughing, doesn't it," he noted softly. "Wonder how they managed that?"

"_They_?"

"Whoever did this," he elaborated, waving nonchalantly. "Think it's magic?"

"You're going to point your wand at it, aren't you?" I retorted.

He grinned.

"Good point."

"We should hurry," I said nervously, refusing to look down at my watch. "I have no idea how long they'll wait before—"

"I know, Hermione," he replied, quietly. "But we're doing the best we can."

I smiled, sort of.

"Of course, yeah, I know."

He cleared his throat.

"Anyway," he went on brightly. "How should I do this? D'you think it's, like—just the three words all in order?"

He arched his neck back in order to meet the statue's unnerving, sightless gaze.

"I'm not sure—"

"Like is it—_Saturday_—ah, what time is it?—_six fifteen_—and I'm not really sure where we are, but we're probably still technically in Hogsmeade—"

Almost immediately, there was a clunky grinding sound as the basin Harry stood in began to turn; we both watched, stunned, as the bricks in front of the fountain shifted sideways, stacking one on top of the other and revealing a dusty spiral staircase that led into a barely visible passageway.

"I—well, I didn't really expect that to work," he confessed awkwardly, staring down at the tunnel entrance. "Did you?"

"No," I admitted. "I didn't."

"Should we—should we go down there?"

"Yes." I paused before continuing. "But—you don't have to do this, Harry."

"Stop it, 'Mione."

I fidgeted, uncomfortably aware of what he would risk by following me down there.

"I'm _serious_," I insisted, yanking at the edge of a broken fingernail on my left hand. "You don't—you don't fucking _owe_ me anything. You don't need to—"

"Why are you so bloody _sure_ that you have to do everything alone?" he interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Wh—what do you mean?"

"You never want to accept help. From anyone."

"That isn't true."

"Yes," he said earnestly. "It _is_. D'you like playing the victim, or something? Is it easier for you to admit you've failed when you know the odds weren't in your favor to begin with?"

"Of—of _course_ not," I spat out, his accusations reverberating loud and clear and painful in my head. "That's fucking ridiculous and you _know_ it is, Harry. I just—this isn't fair to you, you'll be in danger. How can I ask you to—"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you!" he cried, exasperated. "You don't—you don't fucking have to _ask_, Hermione. I'm—I'm right here. I always have been."

"I just—" I started to say before breaking off. "I wouldn't forgive myself if—if something happened to you. I _wouldn't_."

He swallowed.

"Let me help you," he implored.

I felt cold, then, or maybe I felt warm, it was hard to tell—all I knew was that my blood was pulsing fast and slow and my skin was an itchy, superfluous nuisance, and all I wanted to do was scratch it off, layer by layer, exposing something pink and new and innocent—something untouched, unblemished, and eager for protection.

"Why?" I demanded, clutching my elbows and wondering, why, exactly, I was so scared for him. "Why would you want to help me? This isn't—this doesn't have anything to do with you, or even me, it's all for Draco, and you fucking—you fucking _hate_ him."

"Because I care about you," he replied easily, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And you—for whatever reason—care about him. And even if I don't really get why…it doesn't matter, because—because for months, now, I've—what, given you your space? Listened to all the rumors and watched you—watched you _fall apart_—and you didn't even notice me, did you? You didn't want to. You wanted—well, you wanted to be alone."

"No," I argued weakly, "no, I didn't. I never did. I just—after Ron—you—you took his side, didn't you? You always took his side."

"That isn't true," he countered quickly. "And if that's what you thought—well, I'm sorry. The truth is—I didn't know what to say to you after you and Ron broke up. Especially after he told me what he'd said to you—Christ, it's like his mouth works with absolutely no fucking connection to his brain, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I whispered, smiling feebly, slightly. "But, still, Harry—I can't let you—"

"D'you know how hard it was? To hear what everyone was calling you? I just—I wanted you to _realize_, yeah, how bad things had gotten. I wanted you to fucking _wake up_, you know? You were so…distant. People were saying these awful, awful things about you and you were just—going through the motions, and pretending to not care, and it was—it was fucking _frustrating_, Hermione, because I didn't know how to help you. I didn't know what to do. Do you understand that? Do you understand how difficult that was for me? I'm not—particularly good at caring about people. They tend not to stick around. But you—you and Ron, I mean—you were different. And it _killed me_ that I couldn't fix whatever was wrong—that I didn't even know what _was_ wrong. So—_please_. Let me help you."

I was trembling, buzzing with words—unspoken, unfiltered, unnecessary words—that hovered above my lips like mosquitos in a swamp. How did you thank someone for being so much _better_ than you'd ever imagined them capable of being? How did you make that sound like a compliment?

"I don't—I don't really know what to say," I admitted, twisting my fingers around and around and around. "Except—I can't—I don't—I can't let you do this. Neither of us have any idea what's down there. It could be—"

"You're not going to win this one, you know."

I sighed; deflated, defeated.

"I know, Harry."

He patted me on the shoulder.

"Let's go, then, yeah?"

He didn't wait for me to reply. Instead, he carefully descended the stairs in front of us, his arm stretched out, his footsteps echoing dully in the enclosed darkness.

"You coming?" he called out.

I took a deep breath before going in after him, keeping my hand on the smooth stone wall as I entered the narrow, suffocating passage. Harry had lit his wand, creating a glossy yellow break in the shadows for us to follow; from the little I could see of our surroundings, I surmised that we were on a muddy dirt path sloping sharply downwards, with thick wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling and musty white cobwebs lurking in the corners.

We walked and walked and walked; the air grew crisp and chilly as we progressed, and I shivered when I realized how far we'd gone.

"How much further, do you think?" My voice was hushed.

"Dunno. But I think we're starting to go up again."

He was right—I slumped, relieved, and we trekked onwards, upwards.

"Do you—do you see any footprints?" I asked, anxious.

"Yeah. Three sets. His feet are bloody _enormous_."

How long had it been since he'd been taken—thirty minutes? An hour? It alarmed me how far away he felt, especially since I didn't have any idea where he might be. Was he around the corner? Just ahead? Had they Apparated someplace else, someplace I couldn't begin to even guess at the location of—was I going to be too late, no matter what, no matter where? I was already preparing myself to fail, to lose him, to be left behind, abandoned, even if it was involuntary—because good intentions didn't count, not anymore, and once he was Marked, once it was done…there was just so much I would miss about him, wasn't there?

I would miss the way I gasped into his ear, right at the first thrust, my breath forcing its way out, hot and moist, making him dig deeper, push harder, until I wanted him more and more and more—I would miss the way his skin felt against my own, satiny soft and slick with sweat, his muscles peculiarly hard and spongy and flexible under my fingertips—I would miss the way he could say a hundred different things, just with a smile, because, _oh_, he was a puzzle, wasn't he?

He was fiercely loyal, protective of me to a degree that would have made my heart melt had it not been so firmly lodged in my throat; and he was thoughtful, in his own way, conscientious of how he touched me and how it might feel and what, exactly, I needed. But just when I thought I knew him, just when I thought I'd finally figured out how to think of him, he'd surprise me, wouldn't he? He was always one step ahead.

"_Shit—_" Harry yelled suddenly, lunging backwards and grabbing onto my wrist.

"Harry, _what—_"

"Look for yourself. But—be careful, yeah?"

I quirked an eyebrow, wondering at his overreaction. What could possibly be so bad? I could even see some dusky coral remnants of daylight, surely that meant we were close—

_Oh, my God_.

It was a sheer drop, the kind that makes you stop and stare and pray for balance; the kind that forces you to acknowledge that you had no concept of how huge the rest of the world was, not until this moment, not until you stood at a precipice of such magnitude, such finality, that you couldn't even let yourself marvel at it—no, you couldn't, because your instincts are screaming at you to stay still, to not move, not breathe, not think, and there's this looming, prowling threat of falling, because all you'd have to do is waver, slip, falter, and you'd be sliding headlong, face-first, into—_nothing_, into a pitch black cesspool of absolutely nothing.

I tried in vain to tamper down my fear; I'd always been afraid of heights, it's why I hated broomsticks, why I couldn't stand to watch quidditch. It was more than vertigo, though—I felt lost when I was looking down from somewhere very high up. It was as if the proportions were wrong, as if I was looking through a kaleidoscope that distorted my vision, made things smaller than they should be, and I didn't like the reminder that everything in life was relative, that perspective can change, that every single second was precarious, fragile—vulnerable until it was over, until it couldn't be.

I gulped, edging back behind him.

"There's a path, I think, to the left," he offered, eyeing me speculatively. "If you want to keep going."

I'd seen that, of course—a dizzyingly narrow path, barely wide enough for one person, that curved up and up into the pale pink, twilit sky.

"Yeah," I replied, my mouth dry. "Let's do it."

I saw Harry glance back at me, his concern evident—I shook my head, just once.

We continued on in agonizing, paralyzing silence; his pace was faster than mine, though, and within minutes he was much further along than me.

"D'you need help?" Harry called out. "It's not too much further…but it's steep."

"I'm—I'm fine," I answered, my fingers shaking and numb as I tried to find a grip on the cliff wall.

"You're _not_ fine," I heard him mutter.

"I can hear you, you know!" I shouted, gritting my teeth, inching forward.

"Hermione, it's okay, just—just let me come down, okay? You can hold onto me—"

"I'm _fine_!" I snapped.

He wisely chose not to reply.

I stumbled several times over the course of the next half hour—because that's how long it took me to go less than a quarter of a mile, and by the time I'd reached Harry, who was waiting patiently for me at the end, my hands were frozen and cramped and my knees were scabbed and bloody and my nerves weren't just frayed, they were ripped, torn, violently and viciously, and I could barely believe I was still alive, could barely even admit that I wanted to be.

"Okay?" he asked gently.

"I told you. I'm _fine_."

"Take a look, then," he instructed me, nodding behind me.

I spun around—and promptly gasped.

We were in the countryside, surrounded by picturesque, rolling hills so brightly, vividly green that I caught my breath. It was one of those distinctly English scenes, a pastoral masterpiece that invited you to find a red checkered tablecloth and have a picnic. A neatly paved road wound its way through the landscape, ending at the black gravel driveway whose entrance lay directly ahead of us. There was a wrought-iron gate at the base of the driveway that segued tidily into a ten foot high hedge.

"Is that—" I asked, horrified.

"Yep."

"How are we going to get in? Don't those gates have some kind of—of _legendary_ security charm?"

"Yep."

But then something miraculous happened, something that made me think that maybe, just maybe, this could work, that maybe, just maybe, there was some heretofore unknown, fortuitous bit of luck on our side: Pansy Parkinson Apparated onto the road in front of us, her bright blonde hair billowing messily in the wake of her arrival.

Her jaw dropped when she saw us.

"Am I going mad?" she asked, the question seemingly directed at no one.

"Not at all," Harry answered helpfully, striding purposefully towards her.

"Then what the _hell_ are the two of you doing here? How did you even find it?" she demanded, her cheeks ruddy and red and angry.

"Bellatrix Lestrange took Draco," I said evenly. "We followed them here. And now we're going to follow _you_ in _there_."

"No, you're not!" she huffed.

"Really? So you're going to let her hurt him?"

She paled.

"What—what are you on about, Granger? He wants this, he fucking _told_ me so, and she's his _aunt_, did you know that?—She wouldn't—"

"Oh, she _would_," I assured her. "And she will, if we don't stop her."

"I don't—I don't believe you," she stammered.

"And you'll take the chance that I'm lying? I thought you loved him. You've said so—multiple times, and with great…enthusiasm. What happened to that, Pansy?"

She blinked rapidly, sweat beading salty and translucent on her upper lip.

"So—you're telling me that _Harry Potter_ wants to, what, save _Draco Malfoy_ from the Death Eaters? D'you think I'm fucking _stupid_?"

"I do, actually, but that's not important right now. What's _important_ is fucking getting inside there and _saving him_."

She snorted and turned towards the gates.

"Piss off, Granger."

"Pansy—" I started, grabbing her elbow.

"Don't _touch_ me!"

I stared at her, swallowing.

"I love him too, you know," I whispered. "And I understand, now, what you meant about—about loving someone enough to tell them something they might not want to hear. And if—if he wants to be with you, if that's really what he wants—I love him enough to let him. I just—I can't let him die in there. _I can't_."

I was speaking utter nonsense, of course, but she didn't know that—she didn't know that I'd already won, that there had hardly even been a fight, that he was mine, truly and completely, for as long as I couldn't breathe without him there to help me.

"Fine, Granger," she sneered, her nostrils flaring. "You can—you can come in with me. But let's get one thing straight—_I'm_ going to be the one to fucking save him, if it's true he even needs saving, okay? _I'm_ the one who's going to be there for him, the one he's going to look to as his—his fucking _savior_. _I'm_ the one he's going to love for this—_not_ you. Agreed?"

I didn't hesitate.

"Agreed," I lied.

And then we followed her, through the gates and up the driveway, all the way to the large front doors of Malfoy Manor.

OOO


	20. XIX

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

The inside of the house was gorgeous, decorated with dark wood paneling, imported Italian marble, and sterling silver light fixtures. Harry and I stood in the enormous entrance hall, gaping up at the endlessly high ceilings; the whole place reeked of money, ancient and clean and with the faintest hint of lemons. There were several freshly polished, gilt-framed portraits adorning the walls—ten generations of sleek blond Malfoys, with perfectly symmetrical features and lazy grey eyes.

"Quit staring, will you?" Pansy said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "You're embarrassing yourselves."

"Do you even know where you're going?" I shot back, glaring.

"Of course," she said smugly. "I practically _live_ here over the summer—or didn't Draco tell you that?"

I gritted my teeth.

"Must've slipped his mind," I replied stiffly.

"I'm _sure_ that was it."

She led us left, into a wide, well-lit corridor with rich mahogany floors and bright white walls. An expensive-looking crimson runner effectively muffled the sound of our footsteps, and four sets of tall black doors were spaced out evenly along the hallway, providing a stark, oddly modern contrast to the wallpaper.

"Do you trust her?" Harry mumbled into my ear, gripping his wand. "What if she just hands us over to Bellatrix?"

"She might," I conceded, my gaze darting to the back of her head. "But I don't think it would be premeditated—she doesn't really think that far ahead, does she?"

"I wouldn't underestimate her," he replied grimly. "She obviously knows this place like the back of her hand. She could be taking us anywhere."

"Hurry up!" she barked, stopping in front of the last pair of doors.

Harry and I glanced at each other nervously before jogging towards her.

"This isn't worth it," I said tightly, the words harsh and flat on my tongue as I jostled against him. "I feel like I'm just—just handing you over to the Death Eaters, Harry. Go back. Now. Before anyone sees you. _Please_."

"No," he said, his voice resolute.

"Then—then _at least_ stay in the hallway? Please? If anything goes wrong…you'll hear it, and _then_ you can come in, rescue everyone, whatever you want—just—just not at first."

He hesitated.

"_Please_, Harry."

He clenched his jaw.

"Fine."

"Are you coming or not, Granger?" Pansy demanded. "I'm not about to try and do this by _myself_. That'd be _suicide_."

Without bothering to wait for me, she hauled open the door and stalked off.

"Be careful, 'Mione."

I nodded jerkily.

"See you…soon, I suppose."

I followed Pansy, letting the door shut firmly behind me—and groaned. We were in another hallway, this one darker, shorter, and mustier.

"Where are we going?" I asked cautiously.

"None of your business."

"No," I grunted, reaching for her shoulder and forcing her to face me. "It _is_ my business."

"It _isn't_, actually," she snapped. "What do you even think is going to happen when we go in there? D'you really think _Bellatrix Lestrange_ is going to listen to your—your stupid little pleas for Draco's life? _If_ she hasn't Marked him, already? Which, honestly, I really hope she has. Then he'll be alive and everything will go back to normal and we can just—just fucking pretend this whole…_episode_ with you never even happened."

"He wouldn't let her Mark him."

She snorted.

"_Of course_ he wouldn't. My mistake. I forgot how much _better_ you seem to know him."

I flinched.

"Let's just go, alright?"

"Fine by me," she muttered, pointing to a small, nondescript door at the end of the hall. "That's it. That's where they'd be. Should I go in first, so as not to cause even _more_ of a scene? Or are we going to rush in together and pray for a quick death?"

"Will you—just _stop_ being so bloody sarcastic? Why'd you even agree to this if you didn't think it could work?"

"_Because_," she said angrily. "I figured—oh, I don't know—_everything_ always works out for you, doesn't it? Whether it's—it's dumb fucking luck or—or _whatever_, you always manage to come out of it okay. And besides, if things _don't_ go well—I can always just say that I brought Harry Potter's bestest friend as a party favor, can't I?"

I froze; she smirked.

"Who's the stupid bitch now, Granger?"

She threw open the door, and I wondered, briefly, if I should get away while I still had the chance. I heard her gasp, though, and I unthinkingly, unwittingly rushed in after her, wand up and ready—

And stopped.

The room was large and open and airy; a round, solid oak table stood in the center, surrounded by four heavily cushioned, high-backed chairs. Draco stood, alone, next to the wall of latticed windows at the far end, his back to us—there was no one else there, no one at all, and I felt my hopes rise, just the tiniest bit.

"_Draco_?" Pansy shrieked, running towards him. "Are you—are you okay? Granger—she said—"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, flexing his fingers. "Fucking fantastic, actually."

"Where is Bellatrix?" I asked loudly.

His mouth opened, slightly, but he didn't respond, and he didn't turn towards me.

"Draco? Where is she?"

"She left," he said shortly.

But still, still he wouldn't look at me.

"What—what happened, then?" I tried again.

His jaw jutted forward.

"It's fucking done, Granger."

Sticky, liquid dread oozed slowly, noxiously into my bloodstream.

"What do you mean—_it's done_?" I demanded, aghast.

"It's done," he repeated, glancing at Pansy. "I'm Marked—it was pretty anticlimactic, actually. Hardly worth the suspense."

"But—what—you said—you _said_—"

"I said a lot of things to you, didn't I?"

He threw his head back, laughing—and my stomach twisted, dropped, dissolved into a hopeless, gelatinous mess inside of me before I could remember how to speak.

"What are you talking about?" I managed to whisper.

"What am I—she wants to know what I'm fucking talking about, Pansy. Can you believe it? _Hermione Granger_ doesn't know what's going on?"

"You said—you said you _loved_ me."

I stood absolutely still—too stunned to speak, to move, to argue. What was happening? What was he saying? Maybe I'd heard him wrong, maybe I was making this all up—it was in my head, that was it, as some kind of worst case scenario, because just like Ron had pointed out, months and months ago, I was _always_ prepared, wasn't I, and that's what this was, I was imagining it—

"Surely you didn't think I was _serious_?" he asked rudely, his lip curling upwards. "Oh—you _did_, didn't you? That's so…cute."

And then, as Pansy giggled behind her hand and Draco crossed his arms over his chest, sneering, I understood that no, no, I wasn't imagining this, it was happening, it wasn't a nightmare, and despite what Ron had said, I _wasn't _prepared, not even a little bit, because this hurt, it fucking hurt so much, like a million, a trillion little paper cuts, one on top of the other, over and over and over, stinging, vicious, unfixable—and that was the worst part, the fact that I couldn't help myself, couldn't do anything, was frozen in place, useless and impotent and unable to fight back, because what could I say to him now? What could I do to make this better?

"She isn't going to, like, _faint_ or something, is she?"

No, no, I wasn't going to faint—I just needed to—to _breathe breathe breathe, in and out, just like that, keep going, come on, breathe, breathe, _fucking breathe, Hermione—

"No, Pansy, I'm not going to _faint_," I scoffed; but I wasn't sure how I managed it, how I managed to keep my spine straight and my hands still—while my heart was breaking, and my world was crumbling, and all I wanted to do was run away.

"Are you sure?" she simpered. "She looks _awfully_ pale, doesn't she, Draco?"

"Does it even matter?" he yawned. "Does _she_?"

I turned sluggishly, deliberately, towards him.

"I don't know. Do I?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"Do you _what_?" he asked irritably.

I bit my lip.

"Do I matter?"

It was a challenge—clearly, blatantly—and I thought, for a mad, breathless moment that he wasn't going to do it, say it, answer me—because he hesitated, cracking his knuckles, the tip of his tongue resting plaintively against his teeth—but then he smirked, his gaze glacial, and I realized that I'd been wrong, so fucking wrong, that there was nothing about him worth saving, worth loving—had he planned this? Played me? Or was that giving him too much credit?

"No," he said pointedly. "You don't."

I swallowed, shut my eyes tight, too tight, and exhaled—how _dare_ he? How dare he stand there, newly Marked, gloating and arrogant, and let _Pansy Parkinson_—that fucking pug-nosed, sociopathic _parasite_—clutch his arm as if her life depended on it—after what had happened between us? After what he'd said, what' I'd said; after what we'd _done_, more than once—and, oh, I knew what he was trying to do. I knew what he was expecting of me. I was supposed to be humiliated; I was supposed to stutter, sputter, stammer my way through this conversation and let him walk away laughing.

But I was too furious to be embarrassed.

And I was much too far gone to care.

"That's too bad," I cooed abruptly, tapping my finger against my chin. "After I went through all this trouble to meet your parents for tea? Tsk, tsk, Draco—where _have_ your manners gone?"

A muscle ticked dangerously in his cheek.

"Shut the fuck up, Granger."

I feigned innocence.

"Oh, but—wasn't your mother _terribly_ eager to meet me? After your last letter?"

Pansy looked from me to him, her face scrunched up.

"What is she talking about?" she asked.

"She's fucking confused. Aren't you, Granger?"

"Why—I don't _believe_ so," I replied politely, cocking my head to the side. "That's what your father said, isn't it? That you were—_how_ did he phrase it?—_welcome to bring me home for a visit_. So…here I am."

They could have disproved everything I was saying by pointing out the obvious—that I'd intended to rescue him, not stay for dinner; that I'd practically begged Pansy to lead me into the house, and therefore hadn't been invited; that Harry Potter was still waiting for me in the main corridor, poised for a fight.

But I didn't care about that; it was like sticking pins in a voodoo doll, or throwing darts at a photograph. You knew it wouldn't really do anything, that nothing tangible could possibly come of it, and yet—and yet you still had to try, had to poke and prod and needle and hope that maybe, just maybe, you could fool yourself into thinking it would work. Because it wasn't about winning, not anymore; it was about escaping with some miniscule scrap of your pride still intact, about producing some magical, ethereal illusion that you'd come out unscathed, unhurt, untouched.

"Maybe you've forgotten, yeah, what this fucking means," he hissed, folding back his sleeve; and there, there it was, the pale grey, stenciled outline of a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. "But here's a reminder: _you're_ a mudblood. A fucking abomination. A fucking—w_aste _of magic. And do you know what that means? Should I fucking spell it out for you? Yeah? That means you're _not fucking welcome here_, Granger."

I took an involuntary step back, dimly understanding what I was seeing but unwilling to process it fully, completely—how could he have actually done it? How could he have actually gone through with it?

"No," I disagreed, fumbling behind me for the doorknob. "That's not what it means."

"Oh? Please, fucking _enlighten_ us, then."

I studied him and his pointed, angry face, and felt a brief thrum of pity.

"It means," I said softly, "that you fucked up. And that has _nothing_ to do with me. Not anymore."

And then I left, even as he stared at me, his eyebrows drawn together, his expression fiercely _lost_, fragmented, like a smudged, ink-splattered canvas torn into a hundred tiny pieces—unreadable, inscrutable, even as you _knew_, deep down, that something important was hidden there, if only you could glue it back together.

OOO

The next morning, I woke up early and headed to the lake.

It was one of those cheerful, sunny days that made a mockery out of misery—all pale blue skies and soft green grass and an overwhelming feeling of _possibility_, as if you could lie down, gaze up at the shapeless, wispy clouds and find all the answers. And even though I knew that it was foolish to hope for, foolish to wish for, I was flat on my back in front of the water—with my legs outstretched and my arms above my head and my eyes pinned to the sky—before I could even blink.

I didn't want to remember what had happened the previous day. I didn't want to remember how deep he'd cut, how close I'd come to losing control, giving in, asking him _why why why_, that single word drenched in desperation and torn from my mouth gracelessly, painfully—and the pain had been terrifying, hadn't it? Utterly and completely; the kind of agony that blanked your brain and dulled your senses, turned your lips cherry red and the rest of your body a dingy, dismal yellow.

I didn't want to remember any of that.

"Hermione?"

Parvati Patil was hovering behind me, wringing her hands as she waited to be noticed.

"Oh," I exclaimed, quickly sitting up. "Um—hello."

"D'you mind if I sit with you?" she asked respectfully, fiddling with the crisply starched collar of her shirt.

I hesitated—what did _she_ want? We hadn't exactly been friendly, not since she'd accused me of sleeping with Malfoy, and besides, didn't Lavender tell her _everything_, wouldn't she know all about what I'd—

"You don't really have a choice, you know," she said mildly, plopping down next to me. "Harry sent me to check on you. Said that you'd seemed—um, _off_, when you'd come back from Hogsmeade yesterday. Not that he bothered to explain what was _going on_, but—well, I heard from my sister, who heard from Blaise Zabini—they're dating now, can you even believe it? _So_ bizarre—But, anyway, she heard from Blaise that Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy ate breakfast together this morning, for the first time in _months_, and I'm just _assuming_ that's what has you so upset. Am I right?"

My stomach lurched.

"That _did_ happen, I'm sure," I replied. "But I'm not upset about it."

She pursed her lips, and I noticed, dimly, how delicate her complexion was, smooth and warm and silky, like melted toffee—had she always been so lovely? Had I just never noticed?

"You certainly _seem_ upset," she remarked doubtfully.

"Well, I'm not."

She studied me.

"You _are_," she decided. "You have that look on your face that you used to get when you and Ron would fight, like you—like you swallowed a lemon and failed an exam, all at the same time."

I snorted, incredulous.

"Sounds attractive."

"It's not, actually," she replied, completely serious.

"It's just—it's like when Ron and I broke up," I explained tiredly, ignoring her. "I just need some time alone, you know? It isn't—"

"No," she interrupted. "It is _not_ like when you and Ron broke up. This—_thing_—you had with Malfoy, it couldn't have meant anything."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you didn't_ tell_ anyone about it. The first thing anyone does when they're excited and happy is—is _tell_ someone—it doesn't matter who, it could even be a stranger. But you don't just _keep it to yourself_, like it's—it's some kind of shameful, dirty secret. Although…I suppose in _your_ case, it might have been."

I sighed.

"You're right. It's nothing like when Ron and I broke up. Because, honestly, when that happened…I didn't really care," I admitted, my mouth twisting.

"_What_?" she sputtered. "Of course you did, you two were together _forever_. Lavender said you were _devastated_ when they got back together."

"Nope," I replied honestly. "Not even a little bit."

"I don't understand."

"I was—well, I was more bothered by the things that Ron _said_ to me when we broke up, than I was by the _actual_ breaking up part of it," I explained, squinting at her. "We…didn't _fit_ like we used to, you know? And even if I'd never—never _verbalized_ it, or let myself think it—I knew that already. So—yeah, what I'm feeling now—it's fucking _nothing_ like when Ron and I broke up."

Her mouth hung open.

"I—I still don't understand," she blurted out. "He was your _boyfriend_."

"I don't know any other way to say it."

She blinked, rapidly.

"Well—what makes this any different, then?"

"It's like—like, Ron said something to me—when we ended things, I mean. About—about how it wasn't about worshipping him, it was about thinking that he was someone _worth_ worshipping."

She gazed at me intently.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And—don't laugh, okay? It's just that—I—I thought—_that_—about _him_," I confessed, grimacing and tossing a pebble into the lake. "About Malfoy. I got so caught up in the fucking _romance_ of it, you know? He was suddenly, like—like the villain with the super-secret heart of gold, and I needed to come to his rescue and save him from—from, well, _nothing_, as it turns out. But I was just so—so _eager_ to believe he was different."

"Why?" she asked curiously, her back ramrod straight even as she leaned forward to pick at the grass.

I mulled over my response—_why_, indeed? It was hard, in retrospect, to figure out what had caused such a dramatic shift in how I thought, how I _felt_, about him; was it like I'd told Ron—was it his smile? The way his lips stretched out, stretched open, revealing flawless white teeth and an astonishing capacity for real, honest happiness?

Or had it been more complicated than that? Because—because he _had_ been different, even if it hadn't lasted, and he _wasn't_ the person I'd always thought he was, even if that didn't mean anything, and he'd understood something about me—something fundamental, something important—even if he hadn't wanted to. And didn't that matter? _Shouldn't_ that matter?

"Because he was there," I answered simply, quirking my lips. "He was there, and…no one else was."

Her dark eyes softened, just for a second, and I realized, with a start, that she felt sorry for me. When had that happened? When had I become someone to pity, to judge, to stare at and think, _Oh, it's such a shame what happened to Hermione Granger, isn't it_?

"That isn't true, Hermione. You just weren't _looking_ for anyone else to be there."

"Of course I was—"

"You had tons of people trying to help you, trying to talk to you, trying to get you to…be _normal_ again. You just didn't want to listen to us."

I tipped my face back, soaking up the sun, even as my head swam, bobbing and floating and weaving up and down and through a bottomless, fathomless pool of arguments—I wanted, so very badly, to reject what she was saying, to ignore it, deny it, pretend that she was wrong and I was right and there wasn't any room left over for the in-between.

But I was remembering things, little things, and they were making it hard to concentrate: Ron and Harry, watching me wistfully from the other end of the Common Room, nudging one another in what I'd assumed had been camaraderie but I could see now was indecision; Parvati, looking the other way when I'd stumbled up to bed smelling like sex and sweat as she was getting ready for breakfast; Lavender, eyeing me thoughtfully at dinner, seeing right through my paper-thin grin and hollow peals of laughter.

"You're right," I said ruefully, crossing my ankles. "I was a bit of a bitch, wasn't I?"

She frowned.

"You were at first. But then…" she trailed off uncomfortably.

"But then, _what_?"

She furrowed her thick, beautifully arched eyebrows.

"The last couple of weeks…well, you seemed almost happy, didn't you?"

"I wasn't happy," I said quickly, panicking. "I—I _wasn't_. I was—I was fucking _delusional_. That doesn't really count as _happy_, does it?"

"No," she agreed gently, twirling a rope of luxurious black hair around her hand. "It doesn't."

But her response did little to diffuse the fledgling spark of uncertainty that had burst to life inside my mind—because she was right, I _had_ been happy, almost happy, at least for brief snatches of time, and it had been because of _him_, because he had, practically overnight, become the only thing that had made any sense, even if that seemed ludicrous, and he had, practically overnight, become the only person in the world I wanted to talk to, even if that seemed ridiculous, and—

_No_. No, no, no—he'd made his feelings about me clear, hadn't he?

"—should really forget about him," Parvati was saying, the small diamond stud in her nose glinting in the sunlight. "He's a prat—always has been, always will be, and you can do better, can't you?"

Could I? Could I do better than the boy who made my heart skip, just with a flutter of his fingertips? Than the boy who had been my first—my first everything, my first everything that _mattered_, at least. Could I do better than the boy who knew me at my worst and believed me at my best and bothered to think that there was more to me, much more to me, if I'd only just let him?

"You're right," I said wryly. "He's hardly even worth getting over—it isn't like we _dated_."

Of course we hadn't _dated_—our relationship, despite the rumors, hadn't ever progressed beyond the walls of the Astronomy Tower—and even there, I suspected that most of it had been an extension of my imagination, prolonged and protracted by a deranged sort of optimism.

"Exactly!" she cried encouragingly, the chunky gold bracelets on her wrist clanging together as she swept her bangs off her forehead. "He's—well, he's _slimy_, isn't he?"

"How do you—how do you mean?" I asked delicately.

She shuddered, giggling mischievously.

"Oh, you _know_," she responded flippantly. "He's the sort to be cruel to old people and dogs. Isn't that the saying? I can never remember, it's so bloody stupid—I mean, _I'm_ not an old person _or_ a dog, so what do I care, right?"

"Sure. Yeah," I said, nonplussed.

She then got to her feet, smoothing out her skirt and brushing off the backs of her legs.

"You're holding up _much_ better than Harry said you would be, you know," she remarked, glancing down at me.

"Oh, well I don't really—"

"_Much_ better," she repeated, interrupting me. "I'm so glad you're—well, _you know_—it'll be nice to have things go back to how they used to be. Before school ends, I mean."

I swallowed.

"Sure. Yeah," I said again.

"It's lunch time, I think—are you ready to head in?"

"I just—I'll just be a minute," I replied, nodding at the lake. "It's peaceful out here."

"Suit yourself," she said, shrugging. "You're alright, though? If I leave you here?"

I couldn't bring myself to speak for a long, tremulous moment—because I had to lie, didn't I? Because I _wasn't _alright, not even a little bit, and I _wasn't_ holding up okay, not even a little bit, and it was hard, so fucking hard, and it wasn't anything like when Ron had dumped me, when I hadn't known what to feel, hadn't known how to react—because I _knew_ this time, I knew what I felt, I knew how I wanted to react—and it wasn't this, it wasn't this lukewarm sadness that everyone seemed to expect, that everyone seemed to want from me.

It was fiercely violent, aggressive and cancerous and deadly; it was an impossible, acidic knot in my throat, blocking my airway, forcing me to breathe quickly, frantically, rendering me speechless, thoughtless, senseless. It made me want to cry, and it made me want to scream, and it made me want him back—even as I hated him, more than ever, even as I wanted to hurt him, more than ever. It made me want to collapse, to fall to the ground and climb out of my skin and start over—a new person, a new life, a new chance with _him_.

But this wasn't about chances, was it? It was about being thrown away, again and again and again, always, every time, and not understanding why, not understanding what was wrong with me, again and again and again, always, every time, and hearing his voice, reverberating sharply, scuttling like a spider around the inside of my skull—_Surely you didn't think I was serious_?

I forced a bright smile.

"Sure. Yeah. I'm fine."

OOO


	21. XX

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

Later that night, I tossed and turned in my four-poster for hours before giving up on sleep altogether. My body was buzzing with a strange sort of electricity, and I was restless, agitated, my brain refusing to shut off, shut down, my muscles twitching nervously, impatiently; because the shock of the previous day had worn off and I was no longer astonished by my own stupidity and his vicious, biting cruelty. I was no longer sweltering from the heat of my memories—_trembling gasping aching_—but they were _explosive_ memories, the type that made your head swim and your lips tilt upwards; the type that made you wish you could go back and savor those fleeting, precious moments for just a little bit longer, just a little bit, because if you didn't—they would be gone, lost, and you couldn't ever get them back.

But no—no, I wasn't still surprised; I was _angry_, fucking furious, his rejection ringing in my ears like the sting of an undeserved slap and the halting, harsh silence that followed. I was angry—at Harry, for sending Parvati to check up on me, as if she could help, as if she even knew me; at Draco, for tossing me aside, as if I didn't matter, had never mattered; and at myself, for believing him, for taking what he said at face value, for ignoring that soft-spoken voice in the back of my head that always seemed to know better.

I threw off my duvet, reaching clumsily for a cardigan before slipping out to the Common Room. I stood in front of the portrait hole for several minutes, wondering where I should go. It was the middle of the night, and even though it was unlikely I would even see anyone—I couldn't see _him_, that simply wasn't an option, because if I did, if it was, I wasn't sure what I would do; would I scream? Would I hit him? Or would I fall apart—disintegrate—like a piece of parchment dipped in water?

Because I'd put myself back together too many times to count—after fighting with Ron, saying goodbye to my parents, overhearing Parvati and Lavender snicker about how hopelessly awkward I was. Seam by seam, stitch by stitch—I had used up all my thread, dulled the needle, run out of spaces to patch up—and what happened, then? What happened when there was nothing left of you worth fixing? When everything was irretrievably, irrevocably broken—like a shredded love letter, ripped apart again and again and again, as if the act of so decisively, divisively, tearing through the deftly written words would make it so they had never existed, had never even meant anything.

_No_. No.

I shook my head, realizing that I knew exactly where to go—exactly where he wouldn't be. I walked quickly, my footsteps echoing eerily in the rigid, preternatural quiet that had settled over the castle. There was something comforting about the stillness, the hush, the lack of pretense—it was as if I was alone, finally, unencumbered by judgmental stares and preconceived notions. As if I could make this predawn calm last forever—what would it be like, I wondered, if time was suspended, stopped, pulled and pulled until it was thin enough to be transparent, a crisp sheet of glass all see-through and breakable?

I stood at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower stairs and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Now that I was there, I wasn't certain I could climb the steps—I wasn't certain that I wanted to see that window ledge and know that I'd chosen incorrectly, waited for nothing, given a part of myself to someone who hadn't ever deserved it.

I groaned, resolutely moving forward, up the stairs, pushing the door open with my hip and fully expecting to find no one, nothing there—but, no, there he was, leaning against the far wall, ankles crossed, looking unruffled, unfazed, almost absurdly perfect—thick blond hair swiped back, the long, lean lines of his body folded casually, nonchalantly, his slender, graceful fingers tapping irritably against the top of his thigh.

I wanted to run away. I wanted to say something scathing, something that would make him sorry—but I wasn't sure what that might be, and I was terrified that if I stood there long enough, he would know, he would know that as much as wanted to leave—I couldn't, I _couldn't_, my feet were stuck to the worn flagstone floor, my gaze trained on his face—oh, I could barely even register the short, stunted shadows lurking in the corners, disfigured, malicious products of the sputtering candlelight, and the rumpled, crumpled mess of his shirt, the top three buttons undone—and my heartbeat was pumping blood into my veins too fast, too much, a tidal wave crescendo of anxiety and sadness and paralyzing, unfathomable fear; and my breath was stuck, my lungs weren't working, I was drowning—in plain sight, the edges of my vision curling inward, smoky and black, even as he stood there, watching me, rather like a tiger stalking its prey.

But I continued to stare at him, the air between us thick, acrid, full of mistrust and condemnation and a hundred different places to lay the blame—but then there was a breeze, chilly and strong, coming in from the window, and I shivered involuntarily, my cheeks reddening when I noticed him smirk.

"Why would you even fucking come here?" he demanded, his elegant features contorted with something I couldn't identify.

"I thought—I thought this would be the one place in the entire castle where I wouldn't have to see you," I replied, shrugging indifferently—but, oh, he couldn't know, wouldn't know, how very, very much the sound of his voice was destroying me.

"I don't believe you."

"Of course you don't," I snapped. "Why would you? I mean, my God, I've probably been following you around all day—nothing like one last glimpse of the boy who _stole_ my fucking virginity, right?"

A profoundly unsettling silence followed my outburst—he had shifted slightly, his expression vacillating between scorn and discomfort, and I wondered, suddenly, if I should be regretting what I'd said. Was there any point, after all, in reminding him of what we'd done together?

"You sound bitter, Granger—what, didn't you realize you can't get it back?" he sneered, his lip curled. "Besides—I didn't fucking _steal_ it. You—well, you basically just handed it over. I didn't even have to _ask_."

Something hard and red flared to life inside of me, and I felt my fingernails dig deeply into the soft, sensitive flesh of my hands as I gazed at him—steadily, crisply.

"No," I disagreed. "You _did_ steal it. Because you took it under false pretenses, didn't you? And _that_, to me—and anyone with a conscience—counts as _stealing_."

"How fortunate, then, that I don't happen to have one of those."

"Considering the circumstances, I'm probably the _last_ person you have to remind of that fact."

He clenched his jaw.

"Fuck off, Granger."

"No," I said defiantly. "I don't think I will."

He narrowed his eyes—eyes that were large, gray, and incandescent, with a microscopic black freckle staining the outer edge of each iris.

"Fine. Then _I'll _go."

He made a move to leave.

"Good! Go!" I exclaimed, my nostrils flaring. "Because, you know, I might _contaminate_ you, right?"

He paused, porcelain perfect skin fractured by the moonlight.

"You don't have, like, the _plague_ or something, do you?" he asked seriously.

I blanched.

"The _what_? Of course not. What are you—_what_?"

"Exactly. Don't make baseless fucking accusations just because they sound—_appropriate_. I mean, _what_—do you think that I got Marked and turned into a paranoid imbecile overnight?"

I dropped my eyes.

"Well—_yeah_, actually."

He snorted.

"Then I'll say it again—fuck _off_, Granger."

I didn't bother replying, choosing instead to let the silence seep into the smooth, tapestry-covered walls—we were surrounded by centuries of history, centuries of people trailing in and out of this barren, isolated little room. Had it meant anything to them, though? Had anyone before us looked around this precariously-perched tower and bothered to fall in love? We were as close to the sky as we would ever be with our feet on the ground—had anyone else realized that?

"And _I'll_ say it again," I retorted. "_No_."

He pressed his lips together—pale pink, beautifully shaped, deliberately bowed across the top, and so, _so_ soft, achingly soft, like warm buttermilk and raw silk and sun-drenched grass.

"Why haven't you told anyone?" he asked suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"About the Mark. Why haven't you told anyone? You could have made me a fucking pariah by now. You could have gotten back at me for the rumors I started. Why haven't you?"

I picked urgently at a stray, frayed cuticle on my index finger. Why hadn't I? Why hadn't I told Parvati, or Lavender, or even Harry for that matter? He'd asked, of course—when I'd emerged from that pristine white hallway, stunned, lost, wrecked, he'd fired question after question at me, like bullets from a machine gun; but I couldn't quite bring myself to tell him. Because he would have felt sorry for me? Because he would have known that after all I'd put him through—put us _both_ through—that I'd failed? Been wrong?

"Because—because those rumors turned out to be true, didn't they? I mean—well, it was almost as if you'd predicted the future. Minus the bit about Snape catching me in my knickers."

He twisted his mouth disbelievingly.

"You're lying. What's the real reason?"

I crossed my arms.

"Do you _want_ me to tell people? So they can—can start a _new_ bunch of rumors about how—how you chose _that_ over _me_, and oh, I must be so fucking miserable, I must cry myself to sleep every night and—and isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard? Well, isn't it?"

He shook his head.

"That isn't what would happen."

"_Yes_," I said emphatically, my voice brittle. "It _is_. Don't you get it? They'd—they'd fucking _revel_ in it—the smart girl falls for the wrong boy and gets her heart broken. Oh, people would wrap it up nicely, but—but we both know what they'd all be thinking. That I fucking got what I deserved. That I was—was _stupid_, and it was my own fault, and I should have known better."

He shrugged.

"Maybe they'd be onto something."

I recoiled.

"Or maybe they'd turn on you, instead," I continued stiffly. "Maybe they'd think you took advantage of me and lied to me and—"

He cut me off.

"Maybe."

I swallowed.

"Why are you even still here?"

He didn't answer.

"Malfoy?" I pressed.

His bunched his right hand into a fist.

"Is it because you want to be?"

I watched, dazed, as a vein throbbed violently at the base of his throat.

"Is it because you—"

"_No_, Granger, it isn't because I fucking _want to be_," he roared, spitting words out like venom. "It isn't because you fucking _mean anything_ or because I want to fucking _apologize_ or be your fucking therapist. It's because—because _I_ was here _first_, and I—I don't want you to stay, okay? I want you _gone_, I want you to take the fucking _hint_ and—just, just, fuck _off_ already!"

I flinched.

"_No_," I snarled.

"Don't make me say it again," he growled—and I had the impression that he was holding himself unnaturally still, that if I reached out and touched him he would shatter into a million tiny pieces.

"Go ahead," I whispered, refusing to look away. "_I dare you_."

He studied me, then, intently, intensely—and, abruptly, I thought that the world might cave in, collapse, utterly unable to bear the weight of his gaze as it snuck into my body and drilled a hole through my heart—because that's what it felt like, that's what that seemingly infinite moment felt like, comprised as it was of quicksilver eyes and impossibly pale skin; it felt catastrophic, cataclysmic, like the apocalypse was at my doorstep, disguised as something awful and cloying and innocent—a boy and a girl, falling in love, finding each other, wasting it, ruining it from the inside out and spending the rest of their lives wondering _why_, wondering _if_—if maybe they'd broken the silence, swallowed their pride—if things might have ended differently.

Except—_no_, no, he'd humiliated me, chosen her, chosen to get Marked, not bothered to fight back; he didn't want me, he'd said so, and no amount of wishful, fatalistic optimism was going to change that.

"I don't want you here," he bit out. "I don't—I don't fucking want _you_."

There was dusty blond stubble all along his jaw and the top of his neck—and what did it mean that he was never cleanly shaven? What it did mean when all I could think about doing was reaching for his face and feeling rough, prickly skin—like grains of sand scraping against my fingertips, soft and abrasive all at once.

"D'you think I don't _understand _that yet?" I asked, incredulous. "Do you think you need to _repeat_ yourself every fifteen seconds just to make your point? You—you chose a fucking lifetime of what amounts to fucking _servitude_—_you_, a bloody servant, can you even imagine—just to make sure I knew you didn't want me. I don't even think—there isn't really a more _powerful_ way to send that message, you know? So—I fucking _get it_. You don't want me. Anything else you'd like to add?"

"That isn't—that isn't why I got Marked."

"_What_?"

"That isn't why I got Marked. It had nothing to do with you."

I deflated.

"I believe you," I managed to reply, unable to repress a small, endlessly sad smile.

"You—you do?"

"Yeah." I motioned vaguely at his arm. "You're spiteful, but you aren't stupid—you know that's forever. I—_honestly_—don't think—well, I don't think you'd have gotten that just to make a point to me. You…meant it. You had to have."

And maybe it was because that was easier for me to accept—that he believed in his Mark, loved his family, had done it for a reason that wasn't me—or maybe it was because I'd given up on him—really, absolutely, truly; but I was no longer angry.

I was tired.

I was tired, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep—dreamless, flawless sleep, the kind that lets your body melt into the mattress and your posture finally relax and your mind give way to exhaustion.

"I think—I think I'm going to get to bed," I said quietly, unable to meet his eyes.

He was staring at me, his expression flickering with something I didn't want to identify, didn't want to label—because if I did, if I let myself think it, I would have to ask him what he'd meant, why he was doing this—because if I did, I would have to stay awake.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he demanded. "You know—you know that this is all going to fucking—fucking _lead_ to something, right? A fight. A—a _battle_, even, as fucking stupid as that sounds. And—and you know that we won't be on the same side? That I can't—I won't—I'm not going to be able to fucking _protect_ you. You know—"

And then he crumpled—there wasn't another word for it—and spun around, away from me, and strode angrily to the window, tightly gripping the ledge as he exhaled long and loud.

"Of course you know. Smartest girl in the school, right? You fucking know everything," he spat.

"Do _I _know?" I repeated tensely. "Do—do _I_? Are you fucking _serious_?"

"Of course I'm _fucking serious_," he retorted, glaring back at me over his shoulder. "I don't think you fucking _know _what—"

"Do you want to know what I _know_, Malfoy?" I shouted. "I know that I _chased you_, I fucking scaled a fucking _cliff_ for you, and I—I stupidly, willingly, _stupidly_ talked back to _Bellatrix fucking Lestrange_ for you. And do you know what _else _I know?"

The back of his neck turned a lurid, vivid red.

"No."

"Oh, you don't? Let me fucking _tell you_, then," I continued, seething. "I know what it _meant_ when you pulled back your fucking sleeve to show off your Mark. I know what it _meant _when you told me to fucking leave, and what it _meant _when you let Pansy fucking Parkinson laugh at me, and what it _meant _when you said—when you said—"

I stumbled to a halt, closing my eyes—but, oh, he couldn't begin to guess how much this hurt, how much I didn't want to admit that it did, how much I wished that we'd turned out to be anything but what we were—fleeting, tenuous, a taunting, haunting glimpse of happy, just out of reach even as it drifted away.

"When I said what?" he asked sharply.

"When you—never mind. I'm—I'm going to bed."

I felt his hand on my elbow, forcing me to stand still.

"No," he said fiercely, his voice deep and hollow and husky in my ear. "When I said _what_?"

I yanked myself free, turning to face him.

"When you said that I didn't _matter_," I cried, spreading my arms out. "Remember that part? No? I'm surprised, I would've thought you'd have had a house elf record the whole conversation, _that's_ how much you seemed to enjoy yourself—"

"_Stop it_," he hissed, gritting his teeth. "Just—fucking _stop it_. Out of all the things I've said to you—_that's_ what you remember? _That's_ what you choose to fucking think about? I can't even—just _stop_. _Stop_."

My mouth tasted sour.

"_Why_?"

"Because—because—because I _know_ what I fucking _said_, alright? I don't need—_you_—to reenact it for me."

"Oh—I _apologize_, then" I simpered sarcastically. "I had no idea. I was just _making sure_ that you knew _exactly_ what _that_—" I pointed at his forearm. "—means to me."

A muscle ticked in his cheek.

"And what is that?" he asked distantly. "What—_exactly_—does it mean to you?"

I bit my lip, dismissing an appallingly ridiculous urge to laugh—nothing about this was the least bit funny, nothing at all, but my emotions were wild, chaotic, out of control, and I was trembling with something, something indescribable, and it was the only response my brain was offering to the nervous, shaky fluttering in my abdomen.

I shrugged, walking slowly to the door before answering.

"Nothing," I replied simply. "It means fucking _nothing_ to me."

And then I left—before he could react, before he could stop me.

But I didn't sleep.

Of course I didn't sleep.

OOO


	22. XXI

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

I ran all the way outside, my breath coming in harsh, arresting gasps as I slowed to a halt. I let my eyes skim across the surface of the lake, my toes curling into springy green grass; the water was shrouded in a delicate grey mist, reflecting back that eerie, almost colorless shade of lavender that bleeds into the sky right before the sun starts to rise, and it was making me wonder why, exactly, I had come there.

Was it because sleep seemed pointless? Because I didn't want to dream? Because if I closed my eyes long enough, all I saw was his face, and that room, a gigantic solid oak table, a row of shiny bright windows facing a perfectly manicured lawn—that scene had seared itself into my psyche, all blurred edges and molten hot anger, a pretty picture with a gruesome, unexpected ending.

But it was more than that.

I was there because I was disappointed. There had been dread, of course, when I'd first seen him standing at the window ledge—but I'd also felt excited, hopeful even, because he was there, because he was, despite the evidence, holding on to whatever that place had meant to him; a threadbare connection, to be sure, wispy and fibrous and close to breaking—but still. And—even though it was next to impossible—I had half-expected him to tell me that I'd misunderstood, heard wrong, that he'd had a reason, a good one, for being so awful to me, and we could start over, we _could_, we could run away, we could pretend none of it had ever happened—

But he hadn't said any of that. And did I really want him to?

Something was wrong with me. It had been less than a week since he'd first kissed me, really kissed me—and how had I let things spiral so dramatically out of control? It was as if a completely different person had taken over my body; someone who was impulsive and reckless and didn't think rationally before making decisions. Because if I had been myself, I wouldn't have kissed him back, told him my secrets; I wouldn't have loved him so carelessly and forgotten his sins so easily. I would have hesitated before getting undressed, before reaching for him and letting him whisper in my ear: _You're fucking perfect_.

That particular memory was jarring, like an overloud alarm clock going off an hour too early—I had to try very, very hard to reconcile that version of him with the one I'd just left in the Astronomy Tower, because they couldn't be the same boy. Or couldn't they? That boy had been sweet and funny and smart; he'd cared about me, defended me, believed in me even when everyone else was so convinced of my flaws.

But this boy, the one that I'd known for seven years, was none of those things.

He hadn't changed, and he didn't want to.

He didn't want _me_.

I sighed, crouching down and reaching forward to let the water lap gently at my fingertips. It wasn't cold out, not exactly, but there was a strange bite in the air that had seeped into the lake, sharp and crisp, and even as I flicked my wrist, spraying crystal clear droplets in every direction, I felt a thick, bone crushing shudder pulse through my shoulders, spreading down, out—I wrapped my arms around my waist and leaned back.

But Ron hadn't wanted me either, had he?

Without stopping to think about what I was doing, I stood up straight and began to unbutton my cardigan. I shrugged it off before pulling at the drawstring of my pajama bottoms and gingerly removing my t-shirt—little things that I did every morning before getting in the shower but had never done outside, like this, with no certainty of what was going to happen next.

I took a tentative step into the lake and shivered—it was freezing, jolting, a wake-up call without a warning, and as I continued to wade in, deeper and deeper, my skin grew thin and prickly, a semi-transparent shield covered in icy, milk-white goose bumps. By the time I was in up to my neck, my muscles were frozen, numb and useless; but still, still I took a breath and dove in. I kicked my legs out, propelling myself down, and savored the way my body seemed to hover, weightless, over the sandy bottom of the lake—my hair fanned out behind me, each and every tendril separating from the others and floating, suspended, soft, in the murky, mysterious water.

I knew that I should be scared. I knew that Malfoy had proven something to me just now, something I didn't want to have to label—because I'd trusted him, trusted him with a part of myself I'd been holding onto so tight I had lost track of why it was important in the first place. I'd trusted him to mean what he said, to love me back, to not laugh at the birthmark on my lower back, the one Ron had said reminded him of an elephant; I'd trusted him to put me first, always, to understand that I thought he was different, that _he_ thought _I_ was different, that even thought I could never forget who he used to be, I could get past it, I could, because of the intangibles, because of the chemistry, because of the fact that when he touched me I felt my throat constrict and my heart start beating faster, faster, so fast that it seemed like it might break through my chest.

But maybe none of that mattered—the quiet, contemplative silence in the courtyard, interspersed with our first real conversation; that smile, _his_ smile, that night at the lake, the one that had started it all, made me dizzy; the way his voice had turned low and gruff as he'd demanded to know if he'd ruined my first time, his concern evident; the wordless understanding outside the library, before Pansy had showed up, interrupted us, ruined everything—maybe none of that mattered.

Maybe what mattered was being sure—about him, about us, about how it would end.

I kicked my way back up, my lungs burning, and burst through to the surface, gulping in air as I looked towards the shore, my clothes strewn haphazardly over the grass. What was I doing? What had I _been_ doing? I'd been so horrified by the original rumors—how had I gotten to the point where acting them out felt natural? How had I gone from being embarrassed by own body to swimming naked in the lake?

He'd done this to me. He'd let me think—no, he'd _made_ me think that I wasn't who I thought I was, that I could be more than that, better than that, and, and—it just wasn't true. I wasn't the girl who impetuously, impulsively tore off her clothes and lost her virginity on a windowsill; I wasn't the girl who dug her fingernails into Draco Malfoy's head as he pressed his mouth against the inside of her thighs.

I _wasn't_.

I was the girl who liked books, not people, because books didn't lie, they didn't pretend, and they didn't talk back; they were comforting, understanding, unchanging. I was the girl who belonged in the library, not the Astronomy Tower. I was the girl who couldn't accept a compliment—because I didn't believe them, didn't believe _in_ them, because it was like Ron had said, I was hard to love, hard to be around—I was fucking _difficult_, that was the type of girl I was, and—

And that was okay. It was. It had to be.

I scrunched my eyes shut.

I threw my head back.

And then I screamed.

The sound was piercing, shrill, a shock to the system even as it traveled quickly, endlessly, unencumbered by walls or trees or anything, really, except the limitless, star-speckled infinity of the predawn sky—I felt my lips stretch into a smile, my mouth wide open, and listened, hard, wishing that I could see the tail end of my scream as it left my throat and was swept upwards, outwards, see who caught it and heard it and wondered, briefly, about the girl who had released it. Would it reach the castle? Would it find its way up to the Astronomy Tower and echo, uninvited and unrepentant, inside his head? And if it did—if it did, would he even know that it was from me?

"Fuck you!" I shouted, splashing my arms into the water. "Fuck you fuck you _fuck you_!"

A bright burst of laughter bubbled up, then, warming me from the inside out.

I was losing sleep over _Draco Malfoy_. It was like the punch line to a poorly written joke—and if it had been anyone but me, I would have been marveling at my stupidity. What had I thought, really? That he would denounce his family, turn his back on the Dark Lord, and, _what_, fight side by side with Harry? With Ron? It was ridiculous.

"Fuck _who_, Granger?"

I spun around, ducking back down so the water covered my chin. _Malfoy_? Again?

"Did you—did you fucking _follow_ me here?" I demanded, my voice hoarse.

"No," he replied tightly. "I heard a scream. I—well, I thought you might be…injured."

I noticed, then, that his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Had he run all the way here?

"You were—coming to _save_ me?" I asked, skeptical.

"I—no, of course not," he snapped. "I was just—I was fucking _curious_, alright? I didn't even know if it was you."

I stood still, painfully aware of how naked I was.

"Well—no one's…_injured_, Malfoy. You can leave."

He glanced at the ground.

"Are you—are you _skinny dipping_?"

"_Obviously_," I ground out, my cheeks scarlet.

"Why? You must be fucking freezing," he pointed out.

"I am," I replied shortly, irritated. "Why are you still here? I can't imagine there's anything left to say."

He didn't answer for a long moment.

"How cold is it in there?"

"Excuse me—_what_?"

"How cold is it in there?" he repeated.

I blinked.

"Quite cold."

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"Fuck it," he muttered, removing his Oxford in one swift, fluid motion.

"What are you _doing_?" I shrieked, my pulse racing, rushing, start-stopping in perfect harmony with my frazzled nerves.

He'd stripped down to his underwear and was swimming towards me, his face pinched from the shock of the water.

"I'm joining you," he responded, shrugging.

"No, you're not," I said automatically.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Actually—and really, feel free to correct me—it appears that I _am_."

I narrowed my eyes.

"Why are you doing this?"

He was standing a few feet away, his face serious.

"Because I need to talk to you—I need to fucking _explain_—and I wanted to do it earlier, but you—you just make me so fucking _angry_, and I…I didn't get to it. You ran away too fast."

"And what makes now any different?"

He smirked.

"You're naked. In a lake. Not a whole lot of places for you to go."

I grimaced.

"Like I said. I can't imagine there's anything left to say."

He crossed his arms; I watched, entranced, as the muscles at the tops of his shoulders bunched up.

"Then you have a shitty fucking imagination," he snorted.

I swallowed, digging my toes into the sand.

"What do you want?"

"Who were you yelling at just now?" he countered evasively.

"I wasn't yelling _at_ anyone," I retorted, bristling.

"Fine. Who was the _fuck you_ directed at, then? Me?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Maybe," I admitted. "Or maybe it was for Ron. Or Lavender. Or Pansy. There are a pretty appalling number of candidates."

He edged closer.

"Is that why you said it so many times?"

My lips twitched—but I couldn't smile, wouldn't smile, because he was doing it again, making me wish, making me wonder, and he was acting as if the last hour hadn't happened, and it had, it had, it's why I was there to begin with, and why couldn't he just go away? Why did he have to hear me scream, and why did he have to follow me, follow _it_, and why did he have to stand so close, his breath swirling enticingly, invitingly, across my skin, with beads of water sliding in crisscrossing rivulets down his chest—why was he doing this?

"What do you want?" I asked again.

He fidgeted, the water around his waist rippling.

"You—you were supposed to fight back," he said jerkily. "You were supposed to figure it out and understand what I was fucking doing and—and _fight_ for me. You weren't supposed to let me go. This, this fucking Mark, should—shouldn't matter, you said it didn't, you said you'd still—"

He broke off, his jaw set at a harsh angle.

"Supposed to figure _what_ out?" I asked, my stomach clenching.

"That I was _protecting you_!" he shouted, the veins in his neck corded and thick and angry. "That it was all for you, all of it, that I—that I _had_ to get Marked after Bellatrix had seen us together, or else—they would have gone after you, they wouldn't have fucking bothered to wait for school to end, and I couldn't—I just—I _couldn't_—"

"No," I argued weakly, shaking my head. "No, that isn't true, you said—you said—"

"You weren't supposed to follow me that day," he continued, ignoring me. "You weren't supposed to see—God, when I fucking saw you standing in the doorway, I didn't even—I panicked, because Pansy was there, and I couldn't say anything, I had to—don't you fucking get it yet? Don't you see?"

I hugged myself.

This was not happening.

This was not happening.

Except—it was.

It was like starting to wake up while you were still dreaming—everything was different, just the tiniest bit _off_, and even as you wandered along, blissfully unaware, you would stumble upon something so utterly unbelievable that you had to stop and stare and let your brain sluggishly figure out what the rest of your consciousness couldn't. And then you would relax, safe in the knowledge that it wasn't real, the world hadn't turned upside down and inside out and left you behind—but what if it was? What if it had? What if you woke up one day and the sky wasn't blue and everyone but you thought that it was normal?

"No," I managed to say. "I _don't_ fucking see."

He grabbed my shoulders, lifting me up just the slightest bit.

"It was all for you," he confessed, half-smiling. "I _love_ you. I love you enough to—to fucking get Marked, and to let Pansy follow me around, and to fucking _ignore_ you in the halls, when all I want to do, all I ever fucking think about doing, is _this_."

And then he was kissing me, his hands curving around my hips—and I melted, sighed, fell soft and easy into his chest, forgetting all my resolutions, all my absolutions; because this was what I had wanted, this was what I'd waited for, an explanation, a reason, an excuse—but was there really any justification for how cruel he'd been? Would I really ever be able to think about the past few hours and everything he'd said to me and not want to curl up and cry?

"Wait," I whispered helplessly into his mouth. "Wait—I—stop it, stop it, I can't—_stop it_!"

He pulled back, his arms still wrapped around me.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't—I don't—I just—I still don't understand."

His eyes flickered with impatience.

"What don't you understand?"

I studied him, willing myself to see the boy I'd trusted, the boy I'd loved, the boy I'd ached for.

But I didn't.

All I saw was a boy who was handsome, in a bland way, with cold grey eyes and a Mark on his arm.

"We were alone, just now. In the Tower. And you didn't…you didn't _say_ anything. You let me think the worst. And you were—quite convincing about it," I finished quietly.

His grip on me tightened.

"I told you," he replied uneasily. "You—you just made me so fucking _mad_. I didn't—"

"No," I interrupted loudly, my certainty growing. "No. That's crap. You just didn't want to tell me, did you? You still—you still hate me, at least a little bit. You must."

His chin jutted forward.

"If you want to know if you very occasionally still fucking _annoy_ me, then yes," he answered testily. "But I don't—I don't _hate_ you."

"Then why? Why did you just say all of that up there? Why didn't you just—just _tell me_? Explain? Why'd you wait?"

He gritted his teeth.

"Because—because you _believed_ me," he said, dropping his arms. "You fucking assumed the worst—again. You barely even argued. And the thing is—and you're going to think I'm really fucking stupid for this—the thing is, I thought at first that you were just, just _going along with it_, when we were at my parents' house. But then, right when you left, I realized that you weren't, that you'd believed all of it, and I—I don't know, I fucking…I fucking hated you for that, I guess. For thinking I could say any of that and mean it."

"So…so you took it out on me. Because I didn't—didn't _what_, read your mind? Are you fucking _serious_?"

He reached for me again, his expression guarded—but I stumbled backwards, falling with a graceless splash into the water.

"No," I snarled, struggling to cover myself. "Don't _touch_ me."

"Hermione—"

"Do you even know what you _said_? What it meant to me? How fucking _good_ you are at being a—a—_prick_? What else was I supposed to think?"

"Of course I do. But you should have fucking _known better_! You were—you were _supposed to know better_!"

I gaped at him.

"And because I didn't—you fucking _punished_ me?"

"I didn't think about it like that, but—but _yeah_, I guess I fucking did. _I'm sorry_, okay? _I'm fucking sorry_!" he roared, spreading his arms out.

I stomped back towards the shore and fumbled for my shirt.

"No, you're not. You're _not_ sorry, because you—you think I fucking _deserved_ this, don't you?"

I heard him slosh through the shallow depths of the lake as he approached me.

"You know what—_yeah_, I do," he sneered. "Because you didn't trust me. You looked right at me and—and thought I was still capable of treating you like that. Like I didn't—_couldn't_—love you."

"Because you are!" I exploded, incredulous. "You absolutely _are_ still capable of treating me like that, because—because you just _did_. You just _did_, and I…I…"

"You what?"

"You hurt me," I said simply. "And maybe if you'd just told me, just explained what had happened—but you didn't. You—you just did it again, exactly what you did yesterday, and I can't—I can't get past that. _I can't_."

He roughly pulled on his pants.

"And _you_ hurt _me_," he hissed. "You didn't trust me. You think—you think that I'm still—still _that guy_, the one that hates you and wants to hurt you and doesn't know how to fucking love anyone. And I'm not. I'm _not_ him anymore."

I picked up my cardigan with wet, shaky hands.

"You are, though."

"What—"

"You _are_ that guy, even if you don't want to see it. Even if _I_ don't want to see it."

He stared at me, a muscle in his jaw working furiously.

"You really—you really don't get it, do you?" he asked.

I shook my head, turning towards the castle.

"Like I said," I repeated softly, again, "I can't imagine there's anything left to say."

OOO


	23. XXII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO**

"—so _sad_, you know? He didn't even bother _telling her_! She had to find out from Parvati Patil, who heard it from Blaise Zabini—can you believe he's dating Padma, by the way? So _weird_, right? But anyway—I heard that she—Granger, I mean—has been _sleepwalking_ because she's so upset about it. I don't even—"

"Excuse me," I interrupted, turning around to face the Ravenclaw table. "I understand how fascinating this all must be for you—_really_, I do, especially since_ I_ still have next to no idea what happened—but couldn't you at least wait until I finished my lunch?"

The two sixth-year girls stared at me, mouths open, for several seconds.

"Or not," I sighed, getting to my feet and heading for the doors.

The feverish whispers had been following me around for most of the morning. It was exhausting, listening to strangers speculate about what had really happened—why had I been seen sprinting towards Hogsmeade on Saturday? Why had I been gone so long? How had Snape punished me after I'd had the nerve to escape detention? And _what_ had Lavender Brown been yelling about in the dungeons? Had Ron Weasley _really_ cheated on her? With _me_?

"Shit!"

I looked around, confused, before seeing Lavender sprawled out across the floor.

"Watch it, Hermione! That door is _heavy_."

"I'm _so_ sorry," I said quickly, helping her up. "I was just—in a hurry."

She dusted off her skirt, arching a curious brow.

"Why?"

I hesitated.

"Are people still talking about it, then?" she asked quietly. "In front of you, I mean."

"Yeah."

I had never been sure how much Lavender really knew about what had happened that Saturday—how much Harry had told Ron, how much Ron had told her, how much she had gleaned from her conversations with me, with Parvati—really, the combinations, the possibilities, were endless.

"I'm sorry."

I glanced up sharply.

"Why?"

She bit her lip.

"Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson," she clarified. "They're…"

"Back together? I know."

"No, I mean—they're, um, _really_ back together," she said carefully. "They were all over each other in Potions this morning."

I reached up to tighten my tie.

"I—I see."

"Are you—okay?" she asked, squinting.

I didn't move, couldn't move—my muscles were locked, immobile, and my lungs had, mysteriously, stopped working altogether.

"Did it hurt?" I asked abruptly, without warning, unable to look away from her. "When you saw me and Ron together?"

She exhaled.

"Yes."

And that was it, all she would give me—a single syllable that could answer a million different, a million other, better questions.

"I'm just—well, I'm just trying to…prepare myself for it, I guess. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I—I should have."

She held herself still, her skin pale.

"That was sort of the worst part, if you really want to know."

I blinked, confused.

"What?"

"Knowing that you hadn't done it on purpose," she explained, picking viciously at her fingernails. "It was the worst part. Because—because that meant it wasn't about me. It meant that you loved him, too, and…there wasn't anything else for me to offer."

I swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

She paused.

"You're not," she replied stiffly. "You're not sorry now, even if you want to be, and you weren't sorry then, because…because you were so…_smug_ about it. Like—like you'd just been biding your time, watching him and I together—and, as usual, you'd known something that the rest of us hadn't and were just—just waiting for the right moment to spring it on me. On _him_."

"That's what you—you thought I _enjoyed_ breaking the two of you up?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Of course not," she retorted. "But I knew—we _all_ knew—that you thought you'd, like, _won_—as if it were a competition, as if it hadn't ever been about what—I mean, _who_ he wanted, but about you just—just proving you knew better."

"No," I said urgently, shaking my head. "No, Lavender, that wasn't—that was _never_ it. I _loved_ him—or, I thought I did, at least."

"Seems to happen a lot with you, doesn't it?" she sneered.

I flinched—but was she right? Even a little bit? I thought about how dramatically I'd chased after Malfoy—I'd been sure, hadn't I, that I loved him, that he loved me, that we were destined for something wonderful and just needed to—to what?

Realize it?

Recognize it?

We'd done that already.

We'd done that already, and it hadn't changed anything.

"Yeah," I responded, my voice thin and scratchy. "It does."

Because it did. It _did_ happen a lot, and that was no one's fault but my own. Had I really believed—wholly, truly, completely—that I'd fallen in love with Draco Malfoy? The same way I'd once believed—wholly, truly, completely—that I'd fallen in love with Ron? As much as I wanted to call the past week an anomaly, a mistake, nothing more than a product of poor decision making and an overactive imagination…I couldn't.

"Look," she said. "I'm sorry…about everything going on with you. I am. But—it's got nothing to do with me. Or Ron."

"I know."

She pointed vaguely towards the Great Hall.

"I should—I should go get something to eat," she said awkwardly.

"Yeah. You should."

She smiled, sort of—no, it was more like a grimace—before heaving open the doors and disappearing.

And then I shook out my shoulders, brushing my hair back from my face, and looked up at the moving staircase—where should I go? Someplace new? Some long-forgotten part of the castle where no one else had any reason to be? With a decisive nod, I hurried up the steps, turning right at the first landing without any thought as to where I might be going.

Ten minutes later, I had arrived at the beginning of a long, windowless hallway interspersed with five large, shadowy alcoves, each housing a tall porcelain vase. About ten feet in front of me, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson stood together, talking quietly. Gasping, I ducked into the nearest recess, peeking out from behind the curved stone wall to observe them.

He was leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, hands in his pockets; she was standing in front of him, tugging playfully at his tie, her lips pursed in a delicate pout.

"But _Draco_," she cooed. "It'll be so much fun! We'll actually—_you know_—get to be _alone_, and, well…"

"I already told you," he drawled, his voice flat. "I can't. I have detention with Snape until school's out."

"You can't just ask your father to talk to him?" she pressed. "And get you out of it for _one_ weekend?"

He pushed her back, hitching his satchel higher up on his shoulder.

"I'd rather not."

"I don't understand you," she said accusingly. "Do you just not want to spend any time with me? Ever since we got back together, you've been—"

"I'm fucking tired, Pansy," he interrupted, shrugging. "It's got nothing to do with you."

She paused.

"Is it her, then?" she asked quietly.

I held my breath, entranced, watching as he bunched his hands into violent, white-knuckled fists.

"Who?"

"You know _who_."

"Granger, you mean?" he grunted casually. "I already told you, she wasn't—"

"—wasn't important, I know," she finished for him. "But—but Draco—I looked for you last night."

He tugged at his shirt collar.

"I couldn't sleep," he offered quickly.

"So you—you went swimming?"

His neck turned pink.

"You saw that."

It wasn't a question.

"I didn't mean to."

"And you weren't going to—oh, I don't know—_mention_ this to me? You were just going to fucking—fucking wait until we were fighting to remind me of all the ways I've been awful to you? Just going to add last night to the list?"

She winced.

"_No_," she said emphatically. "I wasn't—I wanted us to start over. I wanted us to have a—a second chance, a proper one. I wasn't going to say _anything_, because I—"

"Because you didn't want to face it? Because you always want to believe everything is fucking perfect?"

She paled.

"No," she mumbled. "I wasn't going to say anything because I knew that I didn't _need_ to."

"What the fuck does that mean?" he demanded, his jaw clenched.

She glanced at the floor.

"I saw you in the water. With—with _her_. And then you kissed her. And then—she pushed you away. She—she didn't want you, did she?"

There was something uniquely terrible about her expression—she looked triumphant, like she'd won, like she'd been proven right—and maybe it was the way the light was hitting her face, or the fact that I was all the way down the hall, hidden in shadows—but she looked _hard_, harsh, cruel, like a villain who thinks she's about to take over the world—finally, finally, _finally_.

"She _did_ push me away," he replied, enunciating each word slowly, perfectly. "Which is, coincidentally, the only fucking reason I'm standing here with you."

Her smirk wavered.

"What?" he asked. "Don't tell me that didn't _occur_ to you?"

"You'd—you'd pick her over me, then? If you had the choice?"

I waited, waited, my fingernails digging into my skin, my pulse jerking around sluggishly, awkwardly—why did his answer even matter, though? Why was I still listening to them?

"No," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I wouldn't. She's—well, she's not really worth the trouble."

I shut my eyes.

"I don't believe you," she said tremulously.

"Fine," he spat, moving past her. "I promise—it doesn't matter either fucking way to me."

"Wait!" she cried. "Stop!"

"_Why_?"

"Because…because…Draco, I love you."

He stared at her, his expression inscrutable.

"There must be something fucking wrong with me."

Her forehead wrinkled.

"What? Why?"

"There must be something fucking wrong with me," he said again.

"I don't understand," she said quickly.

His chin jutted forward.

"Hearing you say that—hearing you say you love me, I mean—do you know what it does for me, Pansy? What it fucking does _to_ me?"

Her eyes widened; he reached up to stroke a strand of her silky blonde hair, wrapping it around his finger.

"What does it do to you, Draco?" she asked eagerly, breathlessly.

He dropped his arm.

"Fucking nothing," he said, half-smiling. "It does fucking _nothing_ to me."

She gaped, speechless.

"Just—just fuck _off_, Pansy. I thought I could fucking _do_ this—pretend, I mean—for her, for you, for my family—but—but I can't. I fucking _can't_."

"Draco," she whispered frantically, "you don't know what you're saying. You're—you're—you're _overwhelmed_, you must be, it was a tough weekend, you've been through so much—"

"No," he snorted, shaking his head. "I'm not. I'm just fucking sick of you."

She stood there, her back stiff, her spine straight, for several seconds.

"Fine," she said, her tone clipped. "_Fine_."

And then she turned on her heel, walking swiftly down the corridor, and I watched, astonished, as Malfoy slumped forward, his body shaking with—laughter?

I shifted, banging my elbow against the vase I was sharing the alcove with; there was a loud crash as it fell to the ground.

"Who's there?" he demanded suddenly.

I stepped forward, clearing my throat.

"_You_," he said, surprised. "What the fuck—what are _you_ doing here?"

I clasped my hands—trembling, quaking, unsteady—behind my back.

"Going to class, obviously," I responded with a withering glare.

"What an absolutely _charming_ coincidence!" he exclaimed, his eyes flashing. "What class is all the way over here? Or, more accurately, over there in that corner?"

"Muggle Studies," I lied, my palms slick with sweat.

"The mudblood's taking Muggle Studies?" he asked rudely. "How fucking unexpected."

"I—I just wanted to fill my schedule. I've taken everything else."

"Of _course_ you have. Smartest witch in our year, right? Where is it?"

"Where—where's what?" I stammered.

"Your class. The one you're on your way to. Where is it? I can't possibly let you walk there alone."

He was angry.

He knew I was lying—of _course_ he knew I was lying, he wasn't an idiot, and he was angry.

"Just—just down there," I said, pointing blindly.

He led us down the hall, his footsteps thundering against the worn flagstone floors.

"Here?" he asked, stopping in front of an ancient looking door.

"No, it's—"

"It's here," he interrupted roughly, twisting the doorknob and shoving me into the room. It was a classroom, seemingly left unused for years—the neat, even rows of empty desks looked forlorn, abandoned, covered as they were in a thick sheet of grey dust.

"Well, what do we have here?" he asked loudly, feigning surprise. "_Why_ hasn't anyone else bothered to show up for class today, Granger? What could _possibly_ be going on?"

I gritted my teeth.

"Will you—will you just _stop_?"

"No," he said sharply. "I won't."

"Of _course_ you won't," I said, rolling my eyes and making a move to pass him. "How silly of me."

"What do you think you're doing, Granger?" he asked seriously. "You don't—you don't _get_ to fucking spy on me—not when you're still pretending you don't give a shit."

"I wasn't—I wasn't _spying_ on you," I shot back. "It was a fucking _accident_. I was trying to—there were these girls—I was just trying to _get away_ from—from all of it. And then…there you were. With her."

He didn't reply.

"And don't try to act like it's all somehow _my_ fault," I went on, swallowing. "We were both—_stupid_ about things. We're not much different on that score."

He snapped.

"No," he said. "No, Granger. We're _very_ much different on that score."

"And how's that?" I challenged him.

Our eyes met, then, clashing, furious, as if it were the first time we'd been alone, the first time we'd bothered to argue, the first time we'd touched—before the smile, before the kiss, before I knew what it felt like to have a grainy stone ledge pressing against the backs of my thighs.

"You need a reason," he snapped. "And I don't."

"What does _that_ mean?" I bristled.

He sneered.

"It's amazing, really, how fucking long it takes you to catch on."

"Fine," I spat, reaching for the door. "_Don't_ bother explaining yourself."

He stepped in front of me.

"It's pretty fucking simple," he bit out. "You need a fucking reason to trust me, and a fucking reason to believe what I say, and a fucking reason to—to _love_ me."

I licked my lips.

"And you?"

"And me? Well—I—I _don't_. I don't _need_ a reason to love you—I just _do_. I don't fucking care about _why_ I want you so badly that I can't even _see_ straight—I just—I just know that I _do_, that—that for whatever fucking reason _that's_ my new normal."

I shook my head—over and over and over, because I couldn't say no, because I didn't know how to, because I had no other way to remind myself that he was wrong, _we_ were wrong—all wrong, hopelessly so.

"It's _not_, though. It's _not_ normal," I said, my voice cracking.

"And then there's you," he continued. "You, who—who can't fucking _grow up_ and get over the past."

"At least I'm not trying to—to _pretend like the past never even happened_," I hissed.

"No," he agreed tightly. "You're just letting it make all your decisions for you. You're just not bothering to fucking _listen_."

"And have you ever—ever stopped to wonder _why_?" I cried, wanting, wishing, no, _needing_ to lash out, hurt him, make him _understand_. "Why I'm not listening? Why I don't want to? _Why_ you're so—so fucking _eager_ to be with me? Why you're bothering? Why you're always trying to convince me that you're worth it, worth the risk, worth the—worth the fucking _trouble_?"

He clenched his jaw.

"Because—because I _am_."

"Are you, though? I don't—I don't _know_ you, not really—and how can you expect me to trust you when—when I don't even—I don't even know your favorite fucking _color_?"

"What does that fucking have to do with _anything_?" he demanded, exasperated.

I flushed.

"That's not what I—it's not about that," I replied shakily. "Specifically, I mean. It's about—well, it's about not knowing _anything_ about you. I don't know how you take your tea and I don't know if—if you sleep with one pillow or two, and I don't know when you had your first kiss—I just—we have so much history, don't we? Just none of it's the right kind."

He cracked his knuckles.

"Milk, no sugar—_three_ pillows, not one, not two—and it was the summer I turned fourteen, with Pansy, in my parents' garden. Anything else?"

"It's not like I have a fucking _list_."

He took a deep breath.

"Hermione," he implored. "I—I know I'm not—_gentle_. I know that I—I say the wrong thing, all the time, and I'm not very—I'm not very _good_ at telling you how I feel. I know that. I know I'm not what you thought you'd ever want. But—but _please_ believe me—I'm worth the risk. _I am_."

A week ago, I would have laughed at him, at _us_—but that was before, wasn't it?

Before everything had changed.

Because there was a disconnect between the bully he'd been for seven years and the boy who had growled, desperately, "_You're fucking perfect_," before sliding inside of me; between the boy who had attacked Ron, defended me against Pansy, and the boy who had watched, almost dispassionately, as Bellatrix Lestrange slapped me.

"No," I said harshly, "you're _not_. And I think that you know that. I think that this whole time—this whole time you just wanted an _excuse_—to do as you pleased, to be selfish and get Marked and pretend that it wasn't about you, it wasn't about you _wanting_ it, oh, no, it was about—it was about _me_, because that's much less fucking pathetic, isn't it? It's—it's fucking _acceptable_ if acting like a—a _sociopath_ is all in the name of _protecting me_."

He took a halting, faltering step backwards.

"You don't mean that. You—you _can't_ mean that." He stopped. "Can you?"

I twisted my mouth, refusing to answer.

"I've known you for almost seven years," he said disbelievingly. "I've watched you be—be _better_ than me—for almost seven years. I've _hated_ you—for almost seven years. And then—and then—God, was it really only a week ago?—you—you fucking changed. Not in an obvious way, not really—but—but—that night we first kissed, when you looked up at me…"

He trailed off, gazing at me intently.

"What?"

"I didn't want to be different. I didn't want to—to fucking be _better_. You made me feel like I—like I didn't need to change, like you didn't _want_ me to change."

He swept a hand through his hair.

"But that was all a fucking lie, wasn't it?" he asked bitterly.

No.

_No_.

It wasn't a lie.

"I…" I started to say—but my throat was dry, and the words were stuck.

"You know what? Don't even fucking bother," he snarled, moving past me.

"No!" I shouted. "Wait—please—I don't—"

He whipped his head around impatiently.

"You don't _what_?"

"I don't…I mean…" I managed to choke out. "I don't really know what to say. Which is—I mean—well, I _do_ tend to talk a lot."

His eyes flickered.

"Yeah," he agreed. "You do."

And then he reached for me, rubbing his thumb across my cheek with startling softness.

"This is going to be goodbye, isn't it?" he asked.

_No_.

_No no no no no no no no_—

"Yes," I answered, numb.

He folded his sleeves back, his hands wobbly.

"I wish…"

"What?"

He rubbed his arm absentmindedly.

"I wish that you weren't fucking right."

And then—silence, deep and thick, sweeping across the room, filling the space between the desks, resonating inside of my skull in a way that made me feel as if I were fifty feet underwater, vision blurry, senses dulled, my body weightless and my veins full to bursting and my brain screaming, screeching, for oxygen.

"Red," he blurted out.

"Excuse me?"

"My favorite color." He smiled—sadly, almost, as if he'd given up. "It's red."

"You're joking."

"Not even a little bit."

"But—but you're a _Slytherin_."

"I know. Can you even _imagine_ the uproar if anyone found out?" he asked sarcastically, scratching at his forearm. "Christ—this thing fucking _itches_—but what's yours?"

I had stopped paying attention, though, my thoughts racing, rumbling, as I tried to figure out why, exactly, there was a pounding in my head so loud and so voracious and so rhythmic that it could only be my heartbeat, echoing, reverberating, reminding me that I was alive, that these seconds, these minutes, weren't nearly as long as I was imagining them to be, that time wasn't relative, that every moment I spent afraid of myself, afraid of what I wanted, was a moment wasted, lost, ignored.

"I can't—" I said, dazed.

"Your favorite color, I mean," he elaborated.

I blinked.

"Green," I whispered, glancing up at him. "My favorite color is green."

And then I smiled, because everything was going to be okay.

Everything was finally going to be okay.

OOO


	24. XXIII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

Over the next few days, we talked—about everything, about anything. I learned that he loved grilled cheese sandwiches, couldn't abide mismatched socks, and had always secretly wanted to learn to drive a Muggle car; I learned that he was allergic to shellfish, terrified of snakes, and the summer he turned thirteen, had been so embarrassed by his voice changing that he hadn't spoken a single word to anyone but his mother.

In turn, I told him about my weakness for animals, cats in particular, and how bizarre I'd originally found the concept of using owls to communicate; I told him about how much I loved Paris, with its ancient, graceful architecture and the seemingly permanent smell of freshly baked bread that lingered in the streets.

He told me about the day he'd met Pansy, when they were seven, and how she'd chased him through her parents' garden before tripping and falling into the fountain; he told me about his childhood, privileged and perfect, and how his mother had forced him into piano lessons, despite his father's objections:

"She just liked the sound, I think," he explained one night in the Astronomy Tower. "She'd do things like that sometimes, as if she was just—I don't know, _oblivious_ to what everyone else thought. Bit selfish, really."

"Really," I said dryly. "Because _that_ doesn't sound familiar."

He quirked his lips.

"I'm used to getting what I want," he replied, shrugging. "My parents weren't very good at saying no to me."

I sighed.

"Mine weren't either," I confessed. "I was an only child, too, and—well, they never seemed quite sure what to say to me, you know? Especially since all I ever wanted to do was read."

He let out a bark of laughter.

"I certainly didn't have _that_ problem," he said, shaking his head. "I was mad for quidditch, actually. My father bought me my first broomstick when I was six, and I—I never wanted to fucking get off of it."

"I didn't realize you liked it so much," I said, surprised. "I always thought…"

"That it was just because of Potter?"

"Well—yes," I admitted.

"No," he said, smiling bitterly. "It wasn't because of Potter. Although—the thought of finally being able to fucking _beat_ him at something was—attractive. But no matter how much money my dad threw at people…they couldn't _make _me have talent, you know? I was never going to be any good."

"You weren't _bad_," I protested. "You very nearly—" I stopped.

"Exactly," he snorted. "I _very nearly_ beat Potter. I had a better broomstick and _years_ of fucking training—and he still won."

"But you still—you still beat the other teams, didn't you?" I pointed out feebly.

He waved his hand.

"Second place still means you lost," he said dismissively, placing his elbows on the window sill and leaning forward. "But it doesn't matter anymore."

I played nervously with the sleeve of my cardigan.

"What—what exactly do you like so much about flying?" I asked.

He was quiet for a second.

"It's—it's almost _dangerous_, you know? You can get so high up—it's like you're looking down through a—a _kaleidoscope_, or something, everything looks so small, and there's just this—this tiny piece of wood keeping you up there, keeping you from falling. It's—it's the fucking _definition _of magic, isn't it? " He paused, swallowing. "But it's more than that. When we were flying—it was the only time my dad ever rolled up his sleeves."

"Oh!" I said, startled. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No, no, it's fine," he said quickly. "I just—I can remember thinking, when I was little, that my parents always seemed scared of something. Whenever the doorbell rang, they'd look at each other like they'd seen a fucking ghost. I didn't understand why, of course, until much later, but—but I _did_ understand that for whatever reason, when my father was flying—he relaxed. He was different. Better. Less…tense. And, like I said, it was the only time he ever let me see his arms."

"I—I see," I said, unsure of what to say.

"D'you know what he told me his Mark was, when I was a kid?" he asked, his mouth curving upwards. "It was hard to see, back then—really, really faint, nothing like mine—but he told me that it was a scar. From a—from an _accident_. Can you even believe that? Like getting Marked is something you fucking _fall into_."

"He was trying to protect you, obviously," I replied, brushing my bangs back. "How do you explain something like—like _that_, to a child?"

He drew his eyebrows together.

"You hate it, don't you?" he asked abruptly.

"Hate what?"

"The fact that I'm Marked," he said casually. "You fucking hate it."

I licked my lips.

"Well, no," I said defensively, "I'm not _in love_ with the idea—but—but I understand why you did it. I do."

"I'm glad," he said honestly. "Because I doubt you'd be standing here—with me, I mean—if you didn't."

I glanced away.

"It's funny," I remarked awkwardly, changing the subject. "That you love flying so much. I'm—well, I'm _terrified_ of heights. I can't so much as _look_ at a broomstick without getting vertigo."

His eyes widened.

"Don't tell me you're actually fucking _afraid_ of something," he teased.

I grimaced.

"I'm serious. I—I _hate_ them."

He nodded towards the window.

"Doesn't this bother you, then?"

I shook my head.

"No, it's not like that. It's like—it's only when there's a chance I could _fall_, you know? When I'm in a—a _precarious_ position, if that makes sense. Like that path to your parents' house, from Hogsmeade—that was fucking _horrifying_ for me," I said, shuddering.

"I—ah—I see."

"Which actually reminds me," I continued. "Why is there a path to your parents' house underneath Hogsmeade?"

He laughed, the tension leaving his face.

"My dad had it built right after I was born, to connect the two houses," he explained. "As sort of an…_escape route_, I guess you could say. Hardly anyone knows it's there."

"Wait—that house—the old one, I mean—belongs to your family?" I asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, but no one's lived there for ages. I don't even think I've ever properly explored it."

"It seemed—well, it seemed _abandoned_, didn't it?"

He shrugged.

"I get the impression that my father doesn't have fond memories of the place."

"Was he the one who put in the fountain?"

"Yes, actually," he replied, grinning. "My parents had quite a dramatic relationship, back when they were in school—apparently my father was in love with her from a distance—for a bloody long time, I think—and she didn't even know his name. He—he wrote her letters, every day, but was always too afraid to send them. She used to joke that she was his 'Laura'—which I never fucking understood, but—yeah, that fountain was for her. A wedding present, if I remember correctly."

I shifted uncomfortably, overcome by a strange fluttering in my stomach—because Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had a love story. A rather beautiful one, from the sound of it. And what did it mean, that people I'd learned to despise—with good reason, I assured myself—were capable of loving each other? Wasn't love, real love, reserved for people like me? People like Harry? People like…Ron?

"What happened to the letters?"

"I don't know, now that I think about it. I assume he gave them to her, but—I don't think I ever asked," he responded, frowning.

"Can we talk about something else?" I asked urgently.

He loosened his tie, yanking at the knot.

"Yeah, 'course," he replied, clearing his throat. "What—what's _your_ family like, then? You never really talk about them—not directly, at least."

I hesitated.

"My parents are…dentists," I said, rubbing my nose.

He stared at me.

"Dentists," he repeated carefully.

"Yeah," I replied uncomfortably. "Dentists. They—well, they're _normal_, you know? Sensible. They—they eat their eggs over medium and recycle their milk bottles and go to the cinema on Sunday afternoons, when they know it won't be crowded. They're…_dentists_."

He scratched at his forearm, scowling.

"D'you miss them, though?" he asked, distracted.

"Of course I do," I snapped, irritated. "They're my _parents_."

He didn't say anything, though, and the silence felt prickly.

"It's just—" I blurted out, before stopping.

"It's just what?"

I bit my lip.

"It's just—I don't fit in with them, you know? And they've never said so, and they love me, I know that, but…they don't get—_this_," I said, motioning at the castle. "They don't understand why I'm so different. And it's not even—not even the _magic_—because if it was just that, I think it would be okay. It's—it's everything _else_."

He chewed the inside of his mouth.

"Everything else?"

I fidgeted.

"I—I didn't have a lot of friends growing up," I said haltingly. "Like I said, all I really ever wanted to do was read. And my parents—they're _proud_ of me, they always have been, but I was different from other people, from _them_, and I always—I always _sensed_ that, I think. And so did they. And so, when I got my Hogwarts letter, when I was eleven, I thought…I thought I was finally going to go somewhere and—and _fit in_, you know?"

He nodded.

"Except…that isn't what happened. I came here, and—and it was exactly the same."

He turned towards me, his expression curious.

"And the worst part was that I couldn't even _tell them_ how awful it was here," I went on, my voice catching. "They had been so encouraging, and—and _happy_, I think, that they finally had an explanation for—what was wrong with me. And I couldn't bring myself to tell them the truth, that it was awful here, that people were mean to me, that nothing was different—" I broke off.

"And…you're angry with them?" he guessed.

"No!" I exclaimed, frustrated. "I'm not—I'm not _angry_ with them, how could I be, they've been fantastic, they have—I just—I wish, I guess, that I was more like them."

"You—_why_?" he asked, amazed. "No offense—I mean, I'm sure they're lovely people, but…"

"Because—because I think that I disappoint them," I answered, an ache in my chest. "They'd never say so, but…how could I not, even a little bit? I don't see them nine months out of the year, and when I do—I talk about things they don't understand, and I can _do_ things they don't understand—and there's this look on my mum's face, whenever I mention magic…it's like she's sad, like she can't help it, and—I mean, how would _you_ feel, if something so—so _fundamental_ about you…made your parents that unhappy?"

He looked down at his hands.

"I imagine I'd feel pretty shitty."

"Exactly. And the reason I never talk about them—well, it's because I don't even like to fucking _think_ about them. All it does is make me want to—to tell them I'm sorry, for everything, for not being what they wanted—but I could never do that, could I? They'd never let me."

He studied me, his eyes soft, before moving away from the window, stepping close, closer—my gaze was suddenly level with the top button of his shirt, but it was undone, a tantalizing patch of smooth, pale skin visible beneath it—and my throat went dry.

"Come on," he said gently, reaching for my hand. "Let's go outside."

I blinked.

"What?"

He dragged me towards the stairs, his steps swift.

"We're going outside."

"But—but _why_?" I demanded, confused. "It's raining. Like, _really _raining."

And it was. It was one of those late spring storms that makes you question if winter is making an unexpected comeback—with crackling spindles of lightning framing the sky, and angry, deafening booms of thunder assaulting your ears.

"I know," he replied, tossing a smile at me over his shoulder as we descended the stairs. "But don't worry, alright? Just trust me."

I wanted to argue. Of course I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him that he couldn't ask me to do that—because I didn't trust him, I couldn't trust him—but before I could, we'd reached the bottom of the tower, and he'd laced his fingers through mine, and we were halfway down the hallway, running, really, and all my arguments had dissipated, dissolved, been replaced by an infectious sort of excitement, the kind that floods your senses, quickly, without hesitation, until it occurs to you that you're laughing, the piercing, unbelievable sound pinging against the walls, echoing—and as he glanced back at me, and our eyes met, there was a moment of profoundly unsettling understanding, as if I'd spoken the words out loud—

_Yes_. _I'll trust you. Yes._

And when we reached the front doors, imperious and overlarge, and he reached for the heavy iron door pull, I didn't stop to wonder what I was doing before I followed him outside, into the storm, the immediate onslaught of crisp, icy raindrops slowing my steps.

"Where are we going?" I shouted, my voice getting lost in the wind.

"Just over there." He tugged at my hand, leading me towards a small copse of trees next to the lake—the beginnings of the Forbidden Forest. "We'll be sheltered, for the most part."

He was right—the shallow section of forest offered mediocre protection, at best, but it did lessen the effects of the storm. And then there we were, alone, silent, surrounded by darkness and trees and a haunting sense of eternity—there was no turning back now, was there?

"What are we doing here?" I asked tremulously, my gaze searching.

"What you were saying earlier, up in the castle, about your parents…about being sorry…" he trailed off.

"Yeah?"

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face.

"Hermione," he finally said. "You don't have to apologize to anyone for being extraordinary."

I caught my breath, opened my mouth to respond—but words were inadequate just then, because rain was falling, hard, fast, cold, and I felt a shiver pulse up my spine, spreading outwards, and I realized that it wasn't what he was saying that was hitting me so hard—no, because Ron had said things like that, too, in that same voice, and I'd smiled, an artificial sort of warmth pervading my body, and let him kiss me, all the while wondering, in the darkest, bleakest corners of my mind if he even meant them.

But this—this was different.

This was exceptional.

This was matter-of-fact, casual, unplanned and unrecited; this wasn't said to elicit a reaction, to make me feel better.

It was said because he believed it.

And then, as he rubbed his thumb across my lower lip, just once, the friction almost paralyzing, my stomach clenched, roughly, and my heart stopped, abruptly, and I couldn't look away.

"Don't," I whispered, stumbling backwards. "We—we talked about this."

And we had, we'd agreed to wait, to figure out if we could even stand to be in the same room with one another before—

"No," he countered softly. "_You_ talked about this."

"What—no, _we_ talked about this," I argued weakly. "We agreed—"

"We agreed not to touch each other until we were _sure_," he growled. "And I don't know about you, Granger, but—I've been fucking _sure_ since last Monday."

And then he reached for me, his expression predatory, while I stood still, anxious, my heart pounding fast, loud, a never-ending staccato that belied my calm exterior—and when he kissed me, his breath hot as it melded slowly with my own, I was struck by the fact that something was different. Was it because when I ran my tongue along the inside of his mouth, and felt the jagged, microscopic imperfection in his front tooth, I now knew where it had come from? Knew that he'd chipped it while sliding down the banister of his parents' house when he was eight—except he'd gone too fast, lost control, and fallen face first onto the unforgiving marble floor.

_That's a metaphor for something, isn't it_? I thought dumbly.

"Draco," I mumbled, urging myself to pull back. "I just—I have to say something—"

But he had crouched down, suddenly, his features contorted in agony, and lifted up the sopping wet sleeve of his shirt.

"_Fuck_!" he yelled, ignoring me.

"What's the matter—" I started to say.

And then he showed me his arm, and I gasped.

There were no more blurred edges; there was no more subtle, unassuming gray. His Mark was now solid, ferocious, an inky, prepossessing black—such a sharp contrast to the pristine paleness of his skin. It looked wrong, out of place, like a wrinkled purple strawberry in a basket of glistening, perfectly plump red ones—I wanted to erase it, scratch it off, make it so it hadn't ever been there to begin with.

"What's happening?" I managed to ask, clenching my hands into fists—to hide the trembling, that was all, because if he saw how terrified I was, he would know that something was horribly, horrifically wrong.

"I—I don't know," he whispered, still staring at it.

"Surely they—I mean, surely they explained how things…work?"

"It's not like it comes with fucking—fucking _directions_, Hermione," he snapped angrily.

I flinched.

"I didn't mean—"

"Sorry," he interrupted. "I'm sorry. I just—this is just fucking unbelievable."

I didn't reply, instead turning my attention back to his arm—back to his Mark. I let my fingers graze over the patch of puffy, irritated skin, marveling at how warm it was, despite the rain.

"Do you feel any different?" I asked, curious.

"I feel—" he started, before stopping. "I feel…itchy. Like—like there's something I need to do, right fucking now, but I—I'm not sure what it is. That's odd, isn't it?"

I felt a stab of something like pity—he was helpless, I realized. Helpless and scared and unsure of what might happen next.

"He's going to—to fucking _summon_ me, or something, isn't he?" he asked, rain running in shimmery, unbroken rivulets down the rigid, corded muscles of his neck.

I swallowed.

"Probably."

And that word, that confirmation, was all he needed, it seemed, because right there, right in front of me—he changed. His shoulders grew stiff, the delicious, silky hollow between his collarbones stretching, moving; his jaw went rigid, the clean, even planes of his face settling into harsh, angular lines.

"They're going to try and kill you," he said quietly.

A flash of lightning burst across the sky.

"I know," I said dispassionately, watching him.

Thunder, then, rumbling loud and livid.

"I'm not going to let them."

"Draco—"

"No," he said fiercely, his eyes blazing with something unfamiliar. "No. Not after everything—not after all of this. They don't fucking _get_ to take you away from me."

Rain, torrential and heavy, pounded the grass at our feet.

"Do you even understand, Hermione?" he demanded.

"Understand what?" I whispered.

"What you fucking mean to me."

I shook my head, desperately.

"My parents were never very good at saying no to me," he said, unconsciously repeating what he'd said earlier that night. "I always—I always got everything I ever wanted. Until I met Harry Potter. Until I fucking met _you_."

More thunder; an impatient, atmospheric grumble.

"And when I wanted you—which was bloody unexpected, let me tell you—and you said—you said _no_, because I didn't make sense and that's all you've ever cared about—making sense, I mean—I fucking panicked."

"That isn't all I've ever cared about," I protested, feeling raindrops hover over my eyelashes.

"It used to be," he said. "But that isn't my point. My point—my point is that you said no. You didn't want me. You fucking—_walked away_. And I couldn't even stop you."

"I don't—I don't understand."

A violent gust of wind ripped across the water, then, whistling through the trees to our left.

"Nothing I did or said could have changed your mind. I was there, and I would have—would have waited for fucking _ever_ if I thought it made a difference—but in the end, you had to choose. You had to _choose_ me."

I tipped my head back, squinting against the rain, and thought about what he was saying.

"And I did," I said, dazed, blinking up at him. "I chose you."

But before he could respond, he was doubled over again, wincing, clutching his forearm, his expression tight, his eyes frantic—

"I think I have to go," he said grimly, quickly. "I don't know—I don't know what's going to happen, Hermione, but—"

And then there was one last scorching surge of lightning, illuminating the castle in the distance, and he was gone.

OOO


	25. XXIV

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

I stared at the spot where he'd just been standing, too stunned to move.

I had to do something.

I had to tell someone.

I had to help him, I did, because he couldn't be gone, he would come back, he had to, and when he did—

I shook my head, quickly, scattering raindrops, heavy strands of hair sticking to my chin; what was wrong with me? I knew what this meant. I knew what was happening. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

_Harry_.

He had to know, of course he did, because—because it was here, wasn't it?

The end.

The battle.

The culmination of a lifetime's worth of fear and indecision—and it was happening, I was sure of it. There was a reason Lucius Malfoy had given in so suddenly to Draco's demands for a Mark; there was a reason that Bellatrix Lestrange hadn't killed me that day in Hogsmeade.

And it was because they'd known about this. They'd known what was coming.

_Harry_.

I had to find Harry. I had to tell him—_warn_ him—that time had run out, that there wouldn't be any more wondering, waiting, watching—no, because it was here, finally, and that meant a fight, that meant danger, that meant—

Realization dawned at the same time the ground started to shake, rumble, the black sky turning blacker, the rain shifting into icy, rock-hard pellets; Draco was with them. Draco was going to be there, in a mask, practically unrecognizable. Draco was going to be on the other side, just like we'd all always thought, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I took a deep, violent breath, squaring my shoulders, turning towards the castle.

_Harry_.

I had to tell him. I had to find him. He had to know.

I ran back through the trees, exposed branches scratching my skin, tearing at my clothes like grasping desperate fingers scrambling to find something, anything, to hold onto—waxy green leaves, large and wet, flapped in front of my face, shielding me, almost, from the rapidly worsening storm.

_Why did Draco even take me here_? I thought crossly, gritting my teeth as I slipped across a particularly treacherous patch of grass—but I was already soaked through, caked with mud, my shirt stuck to my skin, practically transparent, with small, prickly bits of earth fused to the itchy blue wool of my cardigan. And by the time I had dashed across the grounds, bursts of lightning flashing in quick succession, I was shivering.

I entered the castle, wincing as a powerful gust of wind slammed the doors shut behind me. I heard a clatter.

"_Granger_?" Pansy Parkinson was standing at the base of the stairs, wand out, eyes wide, wearing a hooded, patent-leather rain coat and oversized black boots.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I demanded. "Why do you look like that?"

"None of your fucking _business_, Granger," she replied, her voice hard. "Why do _you_ look like you're homeless?"

I felt my cheeks go pink.

"I was outside," I ground out, picking at the hem of my skirt. "_Obviously_. With Draco."

Her gaze flickered with something—was that _fear_?

"Oh my, God—what did you do to him?" she shrieked, the words coming in short, arresting gasps. "How did you know? Did he tell you? He would never—_never_ be so stupid—you must've—_where the fuck is he, Granger_?"

I gaped at her.

"_What_ are you talking about?" I asked, dread simmering like lukewarm water in the back of my throat.

She stared at me, her mouth open.

"You don't know, do you? You don't—of course you don't—then where _is_ he? Did something happen? Was it—was it his Mark?"

I felt lightheaded, then, as if my brain had shrunk or my skull had grown, exponentially, and fumbled behind me for the stone wall—_something, anything, to hold onto_.

"How did you know that?" I whispered.

The color immediately returned to her cheeks.

"So he's gone, then," she mumbled to herself. "They took him. It's really—_actually_— happening."

She brushed past me, then, reaching for the door.

"No!" I shouted, grabbing her elbow. "Fucking answer me! _How_ did you know that? That it was his Mark?"

She sighed impatiently, raising her wand.

"I don't have time for this, Granger. Get out of my way."

I eyed her in disbelief.

"Have you forgotten who's better with one of those, then?"

She froze, her expression tense.

"Fine," she snarled, wrenching up the sleeve of her coat. "You want to know how I _knew_? _This_. _This_ is how I knew."

And there, on the inside of her left forearm, was a Mark.

"It's been getting darker—_clearer_—the past couple of days," she said tersely. "Hurts a bit, too. I wanted to ask Draco if—well, I wasn't sure what was happening—but he wouldn't talk to me. Kept sneaking off to see you."

I felt saliva pool under—no, around—my tongue.

"Well? Nothing to say, then?" she drawled, folding her sleeve back down. "I'm surprised—surely Draco mentioned what was going on? No?"

My lips tingled.

"Or are you not as close as you'd have liked to think?" she smirked. "I _told_ you, Granger—you're never going to know him like I do. It's useless to try."

There was a peculiar buzzing in my ears—was she actually still talking? I couldn't tell, not really, because my brain was stuck, like a scratched record unable to get past the chorus of a song—all I could hear, over and over and over, was her smug, shrill voice: _It's been getting darker—_clearer_—the past couple of days_. _Surely Draco mentioned what was going on_?

No.

He hadn't.

He hadn't mentioned what was going on.

"—not that it matters," she was saying. "For you, at least."

"What?" I blurted out, remembering to focus.

She sneered.

"Well, you're not going to live long enough to ask him about it, are you?"

And before I could reply, ask her what, exactly, she had meant—she had slipped out the door, her bright blonde head bobbing up and down as she ran towards the Forest.

I blinked, dazed, considering her ominous, thinly-veiled threat—it had practically been a confirmation, hadn't it?

_Harry_.

I had to find him. I had to tell him. He had to know.

I bit the inside of my mouth, hard, tasted blood, metallic and thick—and hurried up the stairs, panic settling over me like a musty, unwanted blanket, soft and gritty and irritating; had Draco really known all along that this was going to happen? And if he had—why hadn't he said something? Why hadn't he told me? I remembered, vaguely, how _nefarious_ he and Pansy had seemed several weeks ago, all those whispered, heated arguments that I'd assumed had been about their relationship…but what if they hadn't been? What if I just hadn't been listening to the right parts?

I skid to a halt in front of the Fat Lady's portrait, my breath coming in shallow, stunted spurts.

"Password?" she yawned imperiously.

_Shit_. It had changed this morning, hadn't it?

"Really, this is an _emergency_," I pleaded. "You know who I am, I'm not—"

"Banana fritters," a familiar voice said behind me.

The portrait swung upwards; Parvati held it open for me, her eyes tired.

"What are you doing out?" I asked, surprised to see her. "And—thanks, by the way. I never would have—"

"Something's happening, Hermione," she interrupted, tugging nervously at the end of her braid as we stood together in the Common Room. "My sister—Padma—well, you know how she was dating Blaise Zabini, the Slytherin?"

I nodded, glancing hurriedly at my watch.

"Parvati, I don't really—"

"Well, I just came from her room—she's a mess right now, can't stop crying—and she said that something's wrong with him. She thinks that he just broke up with her, but—I don't know, the way she tells what happened is…odd, really, and I just—I have a bad feeling about it, you know?" She stopped, blinking. "What happened to you? You look…_frightful_."

"I was outside," I answered automatically. "There's a storm. But—what do you mean, a bad feeling? What did he do?"

She sighed.

"Oh, I don't know—I'm probably being silly, but—she said that he's been wearing long sleeves since last weekend, and he went mental on her when she grabbed his arm today—and then tonight, right after dinner, he just told her that he couldn't see her anymore, that she'd understand soon, and ran off, towards the front of the castle. And now she can't find him. It's like he's—like he's _disappeared_, or something. It's just—that's strange, isn't it? The whole thing. I don't…"

"Parvati," I said, my voice urgent. "Wait here. I need—I think I know what's going on, but—I need to get Harry. I just—stay here, alright? I'll be right back."

I scurried up the boys' staircase and heaved open the Seventh Years' door, tiptoeing to Harry's four-poster and pulling back the curtains.

"Harry! Harry—wake up!" I whispered, shaking his arm.

Vivid green eyes blinked sleepily up at me.

"'Mione, is that—that you?" he asked, fumbling for his glasses. "What's going on? What time is it? Why—why are you all wet?"

"It's half past one," I said quickly. "And I was outside—it's a long story. But Harry—can you get dressed? Something's happened, and—"

"Harry? What's going on? Who's that?" a bleary voice called out.

"It's Hermione," Harry answered thickly, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. "Says something's happened."

A second of silence, and then—

"_Hermione_!" Ron choked out. "What are _you_—"

"Will—you—be—_quiet_?" I hissed, glaring at him over my shoulder.

"No, I won't _be quiet_," he snarled, glancing around the room to make sure no one else had woken up. "Do you not remember—_coercing_ my girlfriend into starting a massive fucking fight with me? Just so you could—could run off to shag _Malfoy_? And now you're waking me up in the middle of the bloody night for _no_ good reason—"

"It wasn't to _shag Malfoy_," I retorted furiously. "And what do you mean, waking _you_ up? Last I checked, I wasn't even _talking_ to you."

"Then maybe you should learn to _not talk so bloody loud_—" he began.

"Oh—piss _off_, Ron," I snapped, turning back towards Harry just as he was stuffing his feet into a pair of tartan red slippers. "Harry—please. Come with me. There's something—just—just follow me, please, so I can explain."

He stifled a yawn.

"Wish you could hear how ridiculous the two of you sound," Harry said wearily, heading for the door.

"_She_ started it," Ron said testily, shrugging into a dark blue sweater and following us down the stairs.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded. "This doesn't have _anything_ to do with you—"

"Oh, so now I'm not _invited_ to this—this _secret_ mysterious meeting in the Common Room?" he asked mockingly.

"_No_," I bit out. "You're_ not_."

He stepped up to me, his expression challenging.

"Harry's my best friend," he informed me stoutly. "And _you're_ acting bloody strange. So if you're about to get him involved in something stupid and—and _dangerous_, then _I'd_ like to be here to stop it. Oh—er—hi, Parvati. What are you—"

Harry sighed, sinking into the nearest armchair while I looked around; at the fireplace, empty and streaked with soot, and the murky, lurking shadows plastered across the shaggy crimson rugs.

"Just let him stay, Hermione. Just—pretend it's like old times, yeah? When we used to—you know, solve mysteries and fight evil," he joked quietly, before shooting a questioning glance at Parvati. "Er—plus one, I mean."

I swallowed, suddenly conscious of how cold the air was without a roaring, blistering fire there to warm it.

"Parvati—can you tell them what you told me just now? About Blaise Zabini? No—not the bit about your sister being upset—just what she said happened. How he was acting, I mean."

She shrugged calmly, her earrings glinting in the semi-darkness, and told them.

Harry didn't bother hiding his disappointment.

"You woke me _up_ for that?" he asked me, astonished.

"There's more," I said defensively.

"There better be," Ron mumbled.

"Draco—Malfoy, I mean—not like you don't know who I'm talking about, because of _course_ you do—well, he got Marked," I said quickly, determined to get that part out of the way. "Last Saturday. I tried to stop him—that's what I needed Lavender for, _Ronald_, to distract Snape so I could get away in time—but—I…couldn't."

"_Oh_, Hermione—" Parvati exclaimed softly.

I ignored her.

Because saying it out loud…hurt.

Remembering that day—what had happened, how it ended—hurt.

But nothing—none of that—compared to the sting of hearing Ron sputter with laughter, the sound jarring and harsh and oh, so spiteful.

"Are you daft?" he spat. "Of _course_ you couldn't stop him—we told you, 'Mione, he's a right bastard, isn't he, it was just a matter of time before he went and proved it. I mean, my God, he was probably using you the whole time, just to get to Harry, and you would've let him, wouldn't—"

"That's _enough_, Ron," Harry interrupted sharply.

I felt my chin wobble as I stared at Ron.

"Is that really what you think?" I asked, my voice low. "That I'm such a poor judge of character that I'd—_what_—risk Harry's life, _my_ life—for an admittedly _excellent_ shag? Oh—_sorry_, Ron, is that not what you wanted to hear?"

Ron had leapt out of his chair, his ears red, his jaw clenched; I heard Parvati giggle, the sound quickly muffled.

"I told you she'd be like this, Harry, didn't I?"

Harry held up his hand, his posture tense.

"Will you both just—_stop it_?" he burst out. "I _get it_, okay, breaking up is—_messy_. I understand why you might not want to be friends. Why things can't be like they used to. But—Jesus, will you listen to yourselves?"

I looked away, my throat tight.

"He's gone," I said abruptly. "That's what I needed to tell you. Draco—he's gone. Disappeared. Just like Blaise. And there's more—I ran into Pansy Parkinson on my way up here, and she was—well, first off, she was dressed for the weather. Prepared, I mean. Like she'd planned to go out there. And—she's Marked as well, before you ask. She also seems to think—she seems to think I'm not going to be alive very much longer. So—what I'm trying to get at is—I think something's about to happen, Harry. Something bad."

He shook his head, confused.

"What—what do you mean, though? Gone?"

"We were out there," I said, motioning vaguely at the window. "In the Forest. And then his Mark started to itch, I think, and then—it hurt him, he couldn't even stand up straight—"

"Serves him right," Ron muttered.

"—and then it turned black, and he said he felt odd, and then…he was gone," I finished. "I think he was—well, I think he was summoned."

"By Voldemort," Harry clarified, his face pale.

Ron and Parvati both winced.

"D'you really have to say his name like that?"

"Yeah," I answered, ignoring them. "It was almost like when your scar hurts, Harry. That's what it reminded me of, after I thought about it. Did you—feel anything?"

"No," he said slowly. "I didn't. But that doesn't mean much."

"You don't think—you don't think _he's_ nearby, do you?" Parvati asked, alarmed. "I mean, he wouldn't be so, well, _bold_, would he? To hide out right by the school?"

"He must be, right?" I replied, watching Harry carefully. "Isn't that how the Mark works?"

"I don't know, Hermione," Ron retorted. "Why don't you ask your fucking boyfriend? I'd think he'd know all about them, considering."

"You know, you really shouldn't try so hard to be clever," I shot back. "You aren't particularly _good_ at it, are you?"

"_God_!" Harry exploded. "You—two—are—fucking—_exhausting_."

I flinched, duly chastened.

"Sorry," I said stiffly. "I didn't mean to cause—_problems_—with you and Lavender. Although—you deserved it, you know."

Ron exhaled.

"I know," he admitted clumsily. "I just maybe felt…like you'd turned your back on us. I mean—I couldn't even believe—_still_ can't believe—you…with _Malfoy_. It's…"

"Awkward," Parvati cut in.

"Bloody unbelievable is what it is," Ron said darkly.

"Right," I said, scratching my nose. "Right. It's awkward and unbelievable. Glad we've cleared that up."

We all stared at each other.

"So…what do we know, then?" Harry asked. "Voldemort's here. Nearby, at least. He—_summoned_—Draco Malfoy—and possibly Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini—in the middle of the night, with no warning that we know of…but for what? An attack? Is this _it,_ then? It's finally happening? What did Malfoy _say_, Hermione?"

"Nothing, really," I replied, frustrated. "We were—talking about something else. And it's like I said, it happened very suddenly, there wasn't time—but, wait, no—he _did_ say something."

"What?"

I swallowed.

"He said that—he said they were going to try and kill me," I whispered.

"Just you, then?" Ron asked sarcastically; Parvati snickered.

Harry studied me, his eyes narrowed.

"And then he disappeared?"

"Yeah."

"How did he disappear, though?" he said. "Apparition—which is more or less what Voldemort uses, right?—isn't possible on school grounds."

"We were in the Forest," I explained, twisting my hair around my finger. "Just deep enough to be outside the grounds, I think."

They all exchanged glances.

"And—you said he didn't know what was happening?" Harry asked carefully.

"Yes. I mean—no, he didn't know what was happening, but yes, that's what he said."

"Hermione," he said gently. "Whose idea was it to go out there?"

I cocked my head to the side, incredulous. _What_?

"Surely you aren't implying—that he _knew_ what was going to happen. That he took me there on—on _purpose_."

"He's one of them, 'Mione," he reminded me.

I crossed my arms over my chest, my hands shaking, my thoughts absolutely refusing to align properly—it was like one of those children's games, a picture of a pretty green park with a caption that read: _What doesn't belong here_? But what if it looked fine? What if everything made sense to me and I couldn't even begin to imagine what they meant when they asked that question?

"_No_," I seethed. "He's _not_. You have _no idea_ what you're fucking talking about, Harry. You don't _know_ him, you don't, and—and I should have known the two of you would do something like this, _say_ something like this, because—"

"Because I don't want to fucking die, you mean?" Harry interjected fiercely.

My mouth snapped shut; I heard Parvati shuffle her feet uncomfortably.

"Look, Hermione, I know that he's your—your _boyfriend_—or something—but this isn't about whether or not we fucking like him, okay? This is…serious."

His voice was unsteady, and I felt a lurching, churning emptiness pulse through my stomach, the sort of tremor that precipitates something awful, something unexpected, something you don't want to hear—but wait, wait, I wasn't wrong about him, I couldn't be, I'd—I'd fucking _trusted_ him, even after I knew better, even after everything that had gone wrong, and what Harry was saying, what he was thinking—

Stop.

No.

Stop.

Wait.

Fucking _wait_.

"You're right," I finally said, meeting his gaze. "It _is_ serious. And _I'm_ being serious when I say that you're wrong about him. I don't care what Pansy says. I don't care what _you_ say. You're wrong."

The grandfather clock in the far corner of the room ticked loudly.

"Alright, then," he said gruffly.

"What are we—" Parvati started to say.

"You think I'm being stupid, don't you?" I asked Harry.

He looked away.

"It doesn't matter what I think."

I pressed my lips together—but there, there it was again, that feeling—like I was missing something, something important, something obvious, and no one was bothering to explain.

"You're right," I said defiantly. "It doesn't."

He cleared his throat.

"Come on, then. It's time to go wake someone up and tell them the world's about to end."

OOO


	26. XXV

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

The world didn't end, though. There weren't any screams floating in from Hogsmeade, shrill and sharp, penetrating the castle walls, warning us, reminding us; there weren't any Death Eaters storming the grounds, masks on, wands raised, blasting open doors and filling the air with an unnatural green light.

There wasn't any of that.

There wasn't much of _anything_.

"I just don't understand," I said to Harry the next morning. "I was so—so _sure_ that something was going on…"

His normally bright green eyes were dull and tired behind his glasses.

"Something _is_ going on," he replied groggily. "That's pretty obvious. It's just—not what we thought."

I glanced around at the now empty Common Room. Ron and Parvati had long-since gone to bed, shuffling up their respective staircases with guilty faces and hastily mumbled promises to return should anything happen.

Except nothing had.

"McGonagall's not going to be too happy with us, is she?" Harry yawned, stretching his arms over his head. "All that fuss for nothing."

_All that fuss_ hardly began to describe what we'd done—we'd sprinted through the halls, frantic, frenetic, dread and adrenaline and a potent sort of expectation spurring us on, forward, even after we'd woken up Professor McGonagall and she'd reacted slowly, skeptically, the wrinkles on her forehead deepening as she considered our evidence.

And oh—but we'd been shocked when she'd sent us back to Gryffindor with little more than a stern lecture on being out of bed after hours—we'd thought she was mad, hadn't we? That, or senile, but it didn't matter now, not when it turned out she'd been right.

"I still—I still don't think we're completely wrong," he went on, sighing. "You _saw_ their Marks. You _saw _Malfoy disappear. Something's definitely going on. There has to be."

I bit my lip.

"Do you think they'll send someone to search for them? When they realize that they're missing?" I asked.

"Malfoy and Parkinson, you mean?"

"And Blaise Zabini."

"If he's even gone."

"Well—yeah," I said awkwardly.

He hesitated.

"I don't know what they'll do," he said. "I imagine that yeah, they'll probably look for them, but…"

"It's not like they'd tell us," I finished for him, leaning back in my chair.

"Yeah." He brightened. "Hey—d'you think McGonagall might believe what we told her when she finds out about the three of them being gone?"

"I don't know," I replied wearily. "It isn't like she didn't _believe_ us—she just didn't think it was important. Or that it meant what we thought it did."

He nodded.

"Yeah. It's just—I feel like she's asking me to sit here and _wait_, you know? For them to come and find me. For—well. You know. It's…frustrating."

I stood up, unable to sit still any longer.

"Should we go get some breakfast, then? Starving ourselves isn't going to help anything."

He shrugged.

"Sure."

We trudged towards the portrait hole, our feet heavy, before pausing.

"Do you hear that?" he asked curiously.

"Sounds like someone's _fighting _with the Fat Lady," I replied, surprised.

We exchanged bewildered glances before exiting the room.

"—come on, you _know_ who I am, my bloody _twin sister _lives here!" Padma Patil was shouting at the portrait, her hair in a loose, messy braid down her back. She blinked when she saw us.

"Padma?" I interrupted cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

She took a deep breath, her face anxious.

"Can one of you please go and get my sister?" She shot a dirty look at the Fat Lady. "Your portrait won't let me inside without the password."

"Is something wrong?"

"It's just—Blaise, my boyfriend—he's come back, and he—" she began, her voice quavering.

"_What_?" Harry and I exploded. "He's back? When? Where is he?"

She narrowed her dark eyes quizzically.

"He's waiting for me in the library, but—how did you know he was gone?"

"Parvati mentioned it," I replied vaguely. "But, er—Harry, why don't you take Padma into the Common Room, I'm really in a bit of a hurry, I have—ah—detention, and I really don't want to be late…"

"Detention? At eight in the morning?" she asked dubiously.

"With Snape," I explained quickly. "He's—ah—quite unreasonable."

And then, before either of them could bother arguing with me, I took off down the hall, filled with uncertainty—why had Blaise returned? Was Draco back, then, as well? And Pansy? I raced into the library, my mind buzzing with questions, and immediately saw him.

Blaise Zabini was tall and dark-haired, with high cheekbones and a wide, well-defined mouth—he would have been handsome, I thought, except for the fact that he looked exhausted and dirty, with pale purple circles ringing his startlingly blue eyes, and mud caked around the edges of his clothes.

"Granger?" he asked, astonished.

"Where are they?" I demanded, not bothering with an introduction.

"I don't know what you—" he started to say, indignant.

"I know about last night. About the Marks," I said loudly. "I was with Draco when his started to hurt. I saw him disappear."

His sagged against a bookshelf.

"Oh," he said, defeated. "I didn't—wait a second, where's Padma?"

"Gryffindor," I answered promptly. "Waiting for Parvati. Where _are_ they, Blaise? Where did you go?"

He regarded me steadily for a seemingly endless moment.

"Draco's in Hogsmeade," he finally replied. "He has a house there. I don't know where Pansy went. And I—I was with my parents. I'm not supposed to be here. I just came back to tell Padma that she needs to get out of here. She needs to go home. You all do."

My throat went dry.

"What do you mean?"

He met my eyes.

"You know what I mean."

And I did; of course I did.

"Why are you telling me this?" I whispered.

He shrugged.

"Because I would hate myself if I didn't."

"I…see."

Except I didn't. I didn't see, because I didn't know him, not even a little bit—he'd always been quiet, unobtrusive, a nameless, faceless Slytherin who laughed at Draco's jokes and kept his head down during dinner. He didn't owe me anything—he hadn't needed to give me an explanation.

"How long?"

He didn't feign ignorance this time.

"I don't know. Maybe until nightfall."

I absorbed this slowly.

"You said Draco was at his house in the village?" I asked.

"Yeah," he responded. "That's where he said he was going."

"Thank you. Just—thank you."

He gave me a crooked smile.

"He loves you, you know."

I stared at him.

"I didn't realize you were close."

"Oh, we're not. But Crabbe and Goyle made a joke about you the other night, in the Common Room, and he got kind of…scary, actually. Told them if they said another word he'd make sure no one would hear them scream when he—well, you get the idea."

I bit down on the inside of my mouth, hard.

"He's always had a way with words," I managed.

His eyes softened.

"Yeah. He has."

I heard a grandfather clock chime from the corridor, the sound jarring.

"I should go," I said thickly.

"Good luck, Granger."

"You, too, Blaise."

And then I left, worried about nothing except how fast I could get to Hogsmeade.

OOO

The courtyard looked exactly the same as it had the previous Saturday—unkempt and desolate, a picture that might have been pretty had anyone bothered to look after it.

"Draco!" I called out, my voice spiraling through the crisp morning air, thin and piercing and desperate. "Where are you?"

"Hermione?"

And then—there he was, emerging from between a pair of tall French doors, his hair tousled, his pants dusty, his eyes wide.

"You're here," I said, momentarily frozen with relief. "You're—you're alright. You're actually here."

"You found me," he replied, taking my hands. "I knew you would. But listen—we need to go, it's not safe here—"

"Well, actually, it was Blaise Zabini—he told me where to go," I explained, lacing my fingers through his as we walked into the decrepit old drawing room.

He glanced at me sharply.

"Blaise is at the school?"

"He was there to warn us."

"Jesus Christ," he swore. "Please tell me you're fucking joking."

"No," I said, puzzled. "Why would I be?"

He didn't answer; I furrowed my brow.

"I ran into Pansy on my way back into the castle last night," I said suddenly, something dim and murky and unpleasant—unwanted and unbelievable—creeping into my thoughts. "She said that she'd felt her Mark getting darker for the past couple of days. But—she also seemed to know what was going on. And seemed to think that you did, too."

"Did she?" he asked politely, his back straight, his posture tense.

"What was she talking about, Draco?"

"Nothing," he replied edgily. "She was fucking with you—surely you realize that. But seriously, Hermione, we need to get out of here—"

"No," I said, jerking away. "What was she talking about?"

I watched him, my heartbeat sluggish, my thoughts shattered, the pieces scattered—but he hesitated, for just a fraction of a second, and that was when I understood.

"You knew," I whispered, the words wrenched from some dark, hollow corner of my soul. "You—you fucking _knew_, didn't you?"

"Hermione, we don't have time—" he began impatiently, his eyes darting around the room.

"How could you?" I interrupted softly, stumbling backwards. "How could you know about something like this and—and not fucking _say_ anything? _How_?"

He clenched his jaw.

"Look, there's a lot you don't know. About—about what's happening. About how I'm involved. Did Blaise tell you anything else?"

Palms splayed out, I dug my fingernails into the powdery plaster wall, needing it to stay still, to keep me on my feet—because I couldn't trust myself to stand up, to not fall over, to not run right towards him and collapse in his arms and let him lie to me, because I didn't want to know, because I didn't need to know, because—because—because—

"Tell me, then," I commanded, my voice harsh and gritty and almost, but not quite, firm.

He shook his head.

"Don't do this. Please. Not now."

I stiffened; there was a loud crash in the garden.

"_Don't do this_?" I repeated, struggling to find a way to continue, to explain; except he had to know—_surely_ he had to know—what he'd done wrong. What he'd risked. What he'd hidden from me, and what it meant—the scope of the catastrophe he was propagating, just by standing there, defenseless, refusing to explain.

"_Hermione_," he said urgently, glancing at the window. "I'm serious. We don't fucking have time for this. We need to go. _Now_."

I stared at him, stunned—did he really think that he could just brush this off? Pretend that nothing was wrong?

"You aren't seriously suggesting—"

"What I'm _suggesting_," he interrupted fiercely, reaching for my arm, "is that we fucking leave."

I tore myself away from him.

"You're fucking _insane_ if you think I'm going _anywhere_ with you until you—"

I stopped, startled—because his gaze had finally snapped up to—_into_—mine, dark and stormy and grey, and there was a sort of deadly desperation there, a threat and a prayer all at once; and then my breathing was shallow and my spine was tingling and I was aware of an even, rhythmic thrum of fear being filtered through my bloodstream—what else had he not told me? What was he so scared of?

"Yeah?" he roared, his face pale. "Then by all means, fucking _stay_—but I'm guessing it'll be hard to listen to my explanation when you're fucking dead."

Dread, cold and thick, settled in the bottom of my stomach.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't—" He broke off before continuing quietly. "I can't save you from everything, Hermione. Not today."

_Oh._

My cheeks turned pink.

"Fine. Let's go, then," I ground out, turning around and hauling the closet door open. "To the castle?"

"No," he said shortly. "We're not going there. We're using the fountain."

Dazed, I followed him through the beautifully molded French doors—but then I tasted bile, a lurid, sour sting on the back of my tongue—because the last time I'd been here, the last time I'd seen that fountain, I'd been shell-shocked and afraid and so, so sure that the world was crumbling beneath my feet.

Except now—the fountain was gone.

"_Shit_," Draco swore, holding out his arm to stop me from going forward.

There was rubble everywhere—dusty pieces of pale gray marble strewn haphazardly over the hedges, across the brick-paved courtyard, the ground dotted with angry black scorch marks and singed chunks of olive green moss. Smoke was wafting from the decapitated head of the statue, creating an eerie sort of halo that hovered like a ghost over her pretty, almond-shaped eyes.

"Oh, my God," I gasped. "What _happened_?"

"What _happened_," he snapped, "is my father."

"_What_? What are you talking about?"

"He knew I was here waiting for you," he explained tersely, kicking at a decimated bunch of shrubbery. "He fucking—he _knew_ that you would be here, eventually. He _knew_ that I was going to take you through—through _his_—stupid—fucking—_fountain_ to keep you safe. He must've told someone. He must've—_fuck_!"

I shook my head, confused.

"You were trying to hide me."

It wasn't a question.

"I was trying to _protect_ you," he corrected me, his face pinched.

I gazed at him in wonderment.

"You would have me _abandon_ everyone I love—leave them to fucking fight alone while I—I sit _ensconced_ someplace safe and sound and far, far away?"

He stared back at me angrily.

"_Everyone_ you love?"

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fucking _fair_, Hermione," he replied, turning towards the house. "So, excuse me for trying to level out the playing field."

"Level out the—_what_?"

"D'you really think your friends have a fucking chance?" he asked. "Do you have any idea how many Death Eaters he has? People you wouldn't even—_begin_—to imagine—they're with him. All of them. He's threatened their families and blackmailed them and—and _now_ _they're fighting for him_. Harry Potter is not going to win this time, Hermione. And if you're standing next to him…well, it's like I said. I can't save you from everything. Not today."

I balled my hands into helpless, hapless fists.

"I don't recall _asking_ you to save me from _anything_," I responded tightly.

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" he snorted, starting to walk back towards the house.

"Where are you going?" I demanded, chasing after him.

"Inside."

"That's it, then? You're not going to _say_ anything?"

He spun back around, his expression thunderous.

"You want to know what I _knew_, then? Fine. I fucking _knew_ that something was going to happen last night—my Mark had been itching like fucking crazy for days, and I'm not an idiot—I knew what it meant. And I knew that the Dark Lord was planning on attacking the school—my father and Bellatrix let that slip when I was getting Marked, probably on purpose, as a test—to see if I'd tell you. At least that's what I'm fucking assuming. And there was no way—_no way_—I was going to give them another fucking reason to go after you. Not before I knew how to protect you."

I stood still, my senses bristling with a peculiar sort of electricity—because everything, all at once, seemed much too bright and much too loud—the early morning sun, peeking through the clouds, and the faraway buzzing of a bumblebee, exaggerated, magnified, and that couldn't be real, I had to be hallucinating—but no, his face—it was clear, it was still there, pale and perfect and etched with derision—and how had he come to mean so much to me? How had I ever been able to gaze at him and think anything at all except—_Oh, but this is what love looks like. This is what I've been waiting for._

"And so I took you with me to the forest, just outside the grounds, and let you watch me disappear. Because you know what else I fucking _knew_? That you would figure it out. You would understand what it meant. You would—you would be able to _warn_ someone."

And why was I continuing to try so hard to push him away? Why was I still searching for reasons not to trust him, reasons not to love him—why did I still want him to be the villain? How many times was I going to make him prove that he wasn't—not anymore, not even close—and how many times was he going to let me?

"And I knew that when an attack didn't come immediately, that you would come looking for me—you wouldn't have been able to fucking help yourself. And so I came here, and told my father what I was doing, had him make an excuse for me—and I _would_ have been able to get you away, I would have, except—someone had to go and make sure that I fucking couldn't."

"Draco."

"What?" he snapped.

I moved closer.

"Stop."

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

I placed my hands on his chest, gingerly, feeling his heartbeat flutter, skip, pound out a rhythm that wouldn't have made sense to anyone but me.

"Because it's much harder to kiss you when you're talking."

And then I fell into his arms, my lips crushing his, and knew exactly what heaven tasted like—like tepid tea and a drizzle of peppermint, as if he'd popped a mint in his mouth hours earlier and the residue was still clinging to his tongue. I heard him groan, faintly, his hands sliding down my waist, grasping my backside, yanking me closer—and when he picked me up, pushing me back into the dusty, musty drawing room, kicking the door shut, I was conscious of how very much I'd missed the feeling of his teeth digging into my skin, his breath hot on my neck as he flipped my skirt up, up, out of the way—and then I was plopped, unceremoniously, onto a wooden bench next to the closet, and he was on his knees in front of me, running his fingers along my legs, my hips, softly, delicately, drawing wispy, barely-there circles until I could couldn't stop myself rom jerking forward—

"Please," I said, dizzy from something, from him, from the way he was nipping at the sensitive flesh behind my knee.

"Please, what?"

I didn't know, couldn't know, and even if I did, I couldn't say it out loud, I couldn't, I wouldn't, I _couldn't_—

"Please—please—oh, God," I mumbled, arching my back as he pressed his lips into my inner thigh.

"What is it you want, Granger?" he asked.

_I don't know_.

_I don't know._

"I want—I want—" I stammered.

"Well?"

I met his eyes.

"I want you," I whispered finally, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "I fucking want _you_."

OOO

Afterwards, we both slid to the floor, sweaty and disheveled.

"That was…"

"Yeah. I know."

There was a second of silence, and then he twisted, slightly, in order to face me.

"What's wrong?" I asked, noticing his expression.

"It's funny," he said quietly. "My father always told me that I should be proud of my name—because I was a Malfoy. I was a Malfoy…and that fucking _meant_ something."

"Draco…" I trailed off.

He smiled, sort of, or maybe it was just an awkward tilt of his lips, a way to acknowledge his vulnerability without saying the words out loud.

"But, see—the funny part—the funny part is that he went and pledged his fucking loyalty to a man who—who is so fucking ashamed of himself that he not only changed his name—but decided to fucking _eradicate_ any living reminder of who he was. Of _what_ he was."

I held my breath, my lips dry.

"My father is a Malfoy," he remarked sardonically. "But d'you know what else he is?"

I shook my head; he gritted his teeth.

"He's a fucking coward."

I studied him stupidly.

"You're angry."

"Yeah," he spat, suddenly vicious. "I'm fucking _angry_. D'you know what I wanted to be when I grew up, Hermione? Well? Do you?"

My tongue felt thick and scratchy in my mouth, like sandpaper—but I knew I had to answer him.

"No."

"I fucking wanted to be him. I fucking wanted to be my father. I mean—Jesus Christ—I already look just like him, right? I wanted—I wanted—" he choked out, a muscle ticking at the base of his neck.

"You don't have to—"

"_No_," he interjected ferociously, "I _do_ have to finish."

He paused, as if waiting for me to argue, and when I didn't, he continued.

"I wanted to be him. I wanted talk to people in that—that _cultured_, ridiculous drawl, the one that the Weasleys were always making fun of—and I wanted to _know_ things, the way he did, about politics and the Dark Arts and—even though he'd never admit it—that museum in London, the muggle one, with the giant antiquities section. I wanted—I just thought he was _magnificent_, you know? And I fucking wanted to be just like him. It's why I wanted a Mark so badly."

He flexed his hands.

"And then he went to prison. And when he came back…he was different. Or maybe I was just older, and I understood more, but—but he was…smaller, I guess—no, he was scared. That's it. He was fucking scared. And he started talking a lot about leaving England—_too much bloody rain_, he said."

He tipped his head back, screwing his eyes shut.

"But I still—I still wanted to be him. Because he was perfect. Because if he said something, it had to be fucking true, and when he walked into a room—people fucking _stopped_, didn't they?"

A long silence followed this pronouncement.

"Yeah," I said tentatively, shifting my shoulders.

"Except—" he said. "Except—he's not that fucking fantastic, is he? He's a coward. A—a fucking coward—and a fucking _Malfoy_. Can't forget that."

I flinched at the bitterness in his voice.

"You aren't your father, Draco."

He dropped his chin to his chest and sighed.

"I fucking know that," he snapped. "But—_I'm_ a Malfoy. And that still _means_ something, sort of. It's just—I don't think it's anything to be proud of."

And then he shrugged—fatalistically, as if he couldn't be bothered—and I finally understood what it meant to love someone.

What it meant to love _him_.

Because this wasn't about understanding what was wrong; it wasn't even about understanding what was _right_. It was about needing to erase that looming, lurking emptiness from his eyes, about making sure that he still knew how to smile—because he looked lost, broken, like he was ready to give up, and—

I had to fix this.

"_Thus conscience does make cowards of us all_."

He turned back towards me, his eyebrows drawn together.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

I bit back a nervous, horrified giggle.

"It's Shakespeare," I replied, twisting a thick coil of hair around my finger. "From Hamlet's soliloquy. Act three, scene one. It's—well, it's rather famous."

"I know _that_," he said irritably. "I'm not fucking illiterate. But what does it _mean_? Why'd you say it?"

I cocked my head to the side.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" I said. "It means—that once you're aware of the—the _enormity_ of something, of how important it is—you know to be scared. Hamlet was talking about death, of course, and how knowing it's the end—permanently, I mean—is what makes us so terrified of it. But—"

"Do you have a point?" he interrupted, nonplussed.

I flushed.

"Of course I do," I said quickly. "What I mean is—your father—he isn't a _coward_, Draco. He's just…scared for you. Doing the right thing—whatever that may be—might not seem as important to him as making sure you're still alive at the end of this."

"Getting you killed—when he fucking _knows_ what you mean to me—isn't just _not doing the right thing_," he snarled.

"But—it _is_," I argued. "Because by sacrificing me—even if you despise him for it afterwards—he was guaranteeing that no one would find out about you trying to protect me. He was _saving_ you."

"That doesn't make it okay," he said stubbornly.

I sighed.

"How do you think I felt when I realized you intended to fucking _hide me_ until the war was over?"

He went painfully, abruptly still.

"That was different."

I brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"No, Draco," I said gently. "It wasn't."

And then he pressed his lips together, hard, tight, but not before I saw them tremble, a faint, almost imperceptible quiver, and my breath caught.

"We need to go back," I said. "To school, I mean. We can't—we can't sit in here forever. They need us."

He studied me then, his eyes sweeping slowly, deliberately, across my face, as if he were trying to memorize my features, as if he would be tested on them, as if he knew it would never be like this, never again—and I wondered, for the very first time, if this was how it would end. It had seemed inconceivable before, hadn't it? That one of us wouldn't make it out alive. That we wouldn't have a happy ending—because somehow, despite everything else, we were supposed to have that, weren't we?

"I'm not that brave, you know," he said. "Not like you. I doubt having me there will make much of a difference."

He was, though. He _was_ brave. Because hadn't he been the one to realize what was happening between us? Hadn't he been the one to face it, accept it, recognize it—and didn't that count for something? He was strong in all the ways that I wasn't; he knew himself, and he knew what he wanted, and he would never apologize for that. He had been able to look at me—a too-skinny girl with frizzy hair and an overbite, a girl who had represented, for so very long, everything he hated—and understand that it didn't matter, not when something so inexplicably precious was sitting there, right in front of us, waiting to be picked up.

And it was like listening to the radio, with white noise weaving in and out of the song that was playing—and sometimes the words were clear, and sometimes they made sense; but then there would be a crackle, ten seconds of crunchy, unmistakable static, and when the music came back you'd be lost, uncertain, angry at the interruption.

Because that had been our relationship. Moments of almost incomprehensible beauty interspersed with violent gusts of denial, tears and rage and disbelief—disbelief that it was real, that it would last, that it would ever even matter.

And now, now that it was almost too late, I realized that I didn't want any more static.

I didn't want any more interruptions.

"It will make a difference to me," I replied, knowing that I should tell him everything I was thinking, everything I was feeling, but unsure of where to start. "Having you there, I mean."

He helped me get to my feet, his grip firm.

"I know," he said quietly. "Should we go?"

I gazed up at him, my hands on his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his body beneath my fingertips, beneath the crisp white cotton of his shirt.

"No. Wait. I just—I want you to know something," I blurted out.

"What?"

I felt a bead of sweat slide down my chest, felt it linger in the crevice between my breasts, felt it soak into my skin—like it belonged there, like it knew something I didn't.

"I want this to work. I want what we have—I want it to mean _more_ to me than why I'm mad at you. I want to know that when we fight, it doesn't mean it's over. I want—" I broke off, my voice cracking. "I want _you_. I want you when you think you know better, even though you don't—and—and I want you when you're lying and doing something so incredibly stupid, just because you're trying to protect me—and I want this whole—_mess_ at the castle to just fucking go away, because if something were to happen to you—I don't—I couldn't—"

"Hermione—" he began, stepping closer.

"No—please, let me finish, okay? I just—I need to say this."

He nodded, his expression serious.

"I used to hate you. I used to think you were vain and arrogant and cruel and—everything about you was wrong," I whispered. "And now—now, I just want to get every single moment I wasted hating you—I want to get them all back. Because you were right there, all along, and I was too stupid to see it."

He swallowed.

"We need to go," he said gently. "We only have until it gets dark, and I want—I want people to be prepared."

"I know."

We walked towards the doors, our steps even.

"I love you, Hermione."

I smiled tremulously.

"I know that, too."

OOO


	27. XXVI

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

_11:45 p.m._

The clouds were still.

Too still, unrealistically still, like someone had taken a paintbrush to the sky and covered up the real ones. The stars, too, seemed sparse and dull and unconvincing; they were twinkling lazily, languidly, without conviction, as if they knew that something awful was about to happen, and they didn't want to be around when it finally did.

I shifted uneasily, steadying myself against the window ledge in the Astronomy Tower, wincing as the muscles in my legs began to cramp up.

"Are you alright?" Draco asked, leaning towards me.

"I'm fine," I replied, feeling for my wand. "I'm just—it's been hours since the sun went down. What's going on, d'you think?"

He turned away.

"I have no idea. But they should have been here by now. Something's wrong."

To my left, someone snorted derisively.

"That, or your _information's_ bloody wrong," Ron snapped.

"Shut _up_, Ronald," I hissed, glaring at him.

But Draco had already gotten to his feet, his stance combative, his expression menacing.

"Are you accusing me of _lying_, Weasley?" he demanded. "And, please—think very, _very_ fucking hard about how you answer that."

Ron narrowed his eyes.

"Not lying, no," he replied. "Just hiding something, that's all."

"I told you—_all_ of you—everything that I knew."

"Which wasn't very much, was it?" he sneered.

"What—you think the _Dark Lord_ considers me part of his inner fucking circle, Weasley? That he told me _all about_ his secret plan to attack the school—you think I know fucking _specifics_, do you?" Draco demanded.

Ron crossed his arms over his chest.

"You're Lucius Malfoy's son, aren't you? Pretty sure dear old Dad would know all about that."

Draco lunged forward, grabbing the front of Ron's shirt and shoving him, hard, against the wall.

"Stop it!" I cried, stepping between them. "Both of you!"

"I'll _stop_ when _he_ stops being a paranoid fucking moron," Draco snarled, folding his sleeves back.

"And _I'll_ stop doing—doing _that_ when hell freezes over," Ron put in, scowling.

Draco scoffed triumphantly.

"See? He's an idiot."

I sighed.

"Draco told us everything he knows, Ron," I said tiredly. "The Death Eaters were all summoned to the Parkinsons' house, and all told the exact same thing—that tonight was the night. They were coming to Hogwarts. But he doesn't know how and he doesn't know when. He didn't exactly stick around long enough to find out, did he?"

Ron stayed quiet, glaring at me.

"Where's Parvati?" Lavender asked timidly, breaking the silence. "She said she was coming, didn't she?"

"She's probably with her sister and Zabini," Harry answered, staring out the window, fidgeting. "Or the rest of the Gryffindors. McGonnagal had everyone locked in the tower after she heard what Malfoy had to say."

Lavender swallowed.

"Maybe—maybe I should go look for her, though? Just in case? She could be…lost."

I studied her, taking in the purple circles under her eyes—eyes that were listless and brown, unblinking, frozen with fear—and the way her body was hunched towards Ron's, her shoulders rounded, hands clasped, a faint tremor of anxiety pulsing across her face.

"If you want to go back, you can," I told her gently. "It's okay."

She glanced at Ron.

"No, no," she said hastily. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine, Lavender."

She forced a smile.

"But I am. Really. I—I promise. I just thought—um—maybe Parvati was in trouble, or someone had…" she trailed off, not appearing to realize that she hadn't finished her sentence.

Harry turned away, quickly, but not before I saw his face change, his posture stiffen, his eyes darken—sharpen—with anger.

"None of you need to be here, you know," he said tightly, his jaw jutting forward. "This isn't your fight."

"Bullshit," Ron argued swiftly, shaking his head. "This has been our fight since the beginning, mate. You know that."

"This is fucking _different_, Ron!" Harry burst out. "This isn't—this isn't a game, and this isn't a joke—you could die, all of you, and for—for _what_? For me?"

No one said anything for a long moment. Until—

"I don't know about the rest of them, but I'm certainly not here for _you_, Potter," Draco remarked snidely, arching a silvery blond brow. "And I have no intention of fucking dying."

"Well isn't that just—" Ron exploded.

"Shut up, _Ronald_," Harry interjected, echoing my words from earlier, watching Draco intently. "Malfoy. Draco. What do you—what are you here for, then, if not for me?"

He shrugged, inspecting his fingernails.

"Honestly? I'm shagging your best friend. I'm here because she wants me to be." He paused, ignoring the strangled groan that had emerged from Ron's mouth. "Also—this thing on my arm—I'd like a little revenge for that, too, I suppose. It fucking _hurts_."

Harry stared at him, eyes wide. And then something rather remarkable happened, considering the circumstances—he threw his head back and laughed, the sound ringing and confident and loud, while we all exhaled—relieved, stunned, confused.

"Knew you couldn't be _all_ bad, Malfoy," he said, grinning.

"What?" Ron bleated. "You can't be serious, Harry—he's one of _them_, just look at his arm. He's—he's _evil_."

"He's helping us, Ron," Harry replied easily.

"But—but—you can't possibly trust him, not after everything he's—"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted, looking at me. "Do you trust Malfoy?"

I licked my lips.

"Of course I do."

"Oh, come _on_—she's—she's being _stupid_, Harry!"

I leaned forward, indignant, only to be stopped by a strong, warm hand on my wrist.

"Weasley," Draco said softly. "Who's the smartest witch in our year?"

Ron didn't respond, the tips of his ears turning a deep, lurid red.

"Did I fucking _stutter_?" Draco suddenly roared. "_Who's—the—smartest—witch—in—our—year_?"

I caught my breath, staring, marveling, at the expression on his face—he looked fierce, ferocious, like an animal about to attack—he looked _magnificent_, his grey eyes flashing furiously, his mouth twisted into a thin red line, his long, graceful fingers twirling his wand ominously, with promise.

"'Mione," Ron mumbled, kicking at the floor.

"Excuse me?"

"I said—_Hermione_," he ground out.

"Exactly. _Hermione_. Now, let's be _rational human beings_ for a quick fucking second, yeah? And think about this—would the girl who _you_ just called the smartest witch in our year _really_ be _stupid_ enough to risk all your lives—including the Boy-Who-fucking-Lived—by trusting me to provide accurate information, if she wasn't _really fucking sure _about it? Doesn't sound very _sensible_, does it?"

Ron gritted his teeth.

"No."

"Sorry—_what _was that? Grunting isn't actually a part of the English language, Weasley. Or did your muggle-loving parents not bother teaching you that before they unleashed you on the rest of the fucking world?"

Ron's hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists.

"No," Ron snarled. "No, she _wouldn't _be stupid enough to risk that."

"You don't fucking say," Draco said mildly.

Lavender gaped at us, her mouth hanging open as Ron stammered heatedly at her side; Harry, though, was gazing at me thoughtfully, his eyes a glittering emerald green behind his glasses.

"Let's just—leave it alone, okay?" I suggested awkwardly. "I think we can all agree that we have much more important things to worry about. Especially tonight."

But a tense, almost ethereal quiet had settled over the room as we were all reminded of what we were waiting for, what was going to happen—soon, too soon, before any of us were ready.

No one bothered to reply.

OOO

_2:30 a.m._

"Hermione," Draco murmured, nudging my side.

"Yeah?" I replied sleepily, snuggling into his shoulder.

"Something's happening."

I shot up, fumbling for my wand, and turned to the window, squinting in the semidarkness.

"I don't see anything."

"No—but _listen_."

I sat still, straining my ears, and immediately heard what he meant—a rumbling, low and heavy, was coming from beneath us.

"Harry!" I hissed, shaking him awake.

"What—"

"_Listen_."

He did.

"Oh, shit," he whispered. "What is that?"

"I—I'm not sure," I admitted. "But it sounds—well, it sounds _close_, doesn't it? Maybe we should—"

A scream pierced the air, echoing across the grounds, cutting me off.

"What—"

But Draco was already on his feet, shoving me towards to the door, yelling at Harry—

"Wake them up and fucking _run_, Potter!"

He grabbed my hand, yanking me down the staircase, and I was struck, all at once, by a harrowing sense of déjà vu—we'd done this same thing last night, hadn't we? Rushed down these same stairs, fueled by adrenaline and recklessness and a dumb sort of adolescent urgency—but now, now we were sprinting, just like before, but terror had rendered us sloppy, slow, our motions jerky and ineffective as we slid across the flagstone floor.

"What's happening?" I asked frantically. "Do you even know?"

But before he could answer, he had tugged open a classroom door and pushed me inside, slamming it forcefully behind us.

"What was that—" I started to ask.

"Shhh," he hushed me, glancing around the room. "Someone's coming down the hall."

"But what about Harry—" I practically shrieked, panicking.

"Will—you—shut—_up_?" he hissed as he stepped in front of me, shielding me, and peered closely at the door.

We waited apprehensively for what felt like forever—but nothing happened, the door didn't burst open, and after several tense moments he sagged against me, relieved, his hands clutching my waist as he turned to face me.

"If there was really someone out there, we need to make sure Harry's alright," I said at once.

"He's a big boy, Granger. I'm sure he can take care of himself," he drawled impatiently.

I narrowed my eyes.

"I don't know if you've _forgotten_, Malfoy, but this whole _thing_ that's happening right now? You know, the _attack _on the castle? _It's all about Harry_. If your—if those _people_ have managed to get in here, he's going to be their first target."

"Exactly," he retorted, his grip tightening. "_Harry_ will be their first target. Not you. Not me."

"Harry happens to be my best friend," I shot back. "I'm not letting him die before he—"

"Has a chance to save the fucking world?" Draco finished angrily.

"Yes! Why did you even come back with me if you weren't planning on sticking around to help?"

"I warned you, Granger," he replied honestly. "I'm not particularly brave."

"Then _you_ can sit in here and hide from the imaginary Death Eaters while I go and look for him," I told him, irritated.

He glowered at me, the skin between his eyebrows pinched and white.

"You aren't fucking going _anywhere_, Granger."

I made a move to push past him.

"Yes," I bit out. "I _am_. Harry needs me."

He grabbed my elbow.

"Hermione, these people will _kill you_—"

"Do you think I don't _know_ that? I've been dealing with them for almost seven years, remember?"

"Then I don't understand—"

Without warning, the door to the classroom flew open—instinctively, I crouched behind a desk, yanking Draco down with me, wildly searching the entryway for the intruder. And when I saw who was standing there, piercing grey eyes sweeping across the room, wand drawn, I froze.

"Who's there?" Lucius Malfoy demanded. "Show yourselves!"

I felt Draco jerk backwards.

"Dad?" he whispered, almost to himself.

Lucius slowly lowered his wand as we stood up, quickly glancing behind him as he kicked the door shut.

"What are you doing here?" he asked hoarsely. "Draco? What are you _doing_ here? What happened?"

Draco bristled.

"I think you _know_ what happened," he snapped.

"What are you talking about?"

I clenched my hands into fists, studying Lucius—he looked tired, his skin porcelain pale but tinged with gray; his sleek blond hair was mussed, streaked with something oily and dark, and his normally impeccable shirt was torn in several places, the fabric of the front pocket ripped at the seam and dangling forlornly at a right angle.

"You destroyed the fountain," I put in, suddenly unsure. "Didn't you?"

He blanched.

"Oh, God," he whispered, stumbling backwards. "Someone followed you. Someone knows. I thought you only told the Zabini boy, Draco? _Who else knew where you were going_?"

"It wasn't you?" I asked, confused.

Lucius sent me a shaky, withering glare—it was fascinating, almost, how he managed to do that, equal parts terrified and terrifying, a contradiction by definition.

"Of course it wasn't me," he growled. "Why would I—"

"I don't believe you," Draco interrupted, his voice low.

Lucius turned to him, his brow furrowed.

"What?"

"I don't fucking _believe_ you, _Dad_. That's what."

An uncomfortable silence followed his pronouncement.

"Draco," Lucius said slowly. "What are you—"

"Is it because she's muggle-born?" Draco demanded sharply, nodding his head in my direction. "Is that why you did it?"

I swallowed noisily, gazing at the floor.

"You think I blew up my own fountain?" Lucius asked incredulously. "Surely you're joking."

Draco stepped in front of me, his stance possessive.

"You're the only one who knew where I was going, _Dad_," he hissed. "And knowing how you fucking feel about muggles—not to mention how fucking disgustingly devoted you are to _him_—it's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

Lucius stared at him.

"I didn't do that, Draco," he finally said, his tone cautious. "I was—well, I was actually proud of you, for wanting to protect—"

"Yeah?" Draco said, his expression a complicated swirl of fear and rage and unshakable, unmistakable sadness. "You were proud of me, Dad? You were _proud_ of me for—for fucking _running away_?"

Lucius went white, his lips pressed tightly together, and lifted his chin.

"That's _it_. This isn't the time for this, Draco."

But Draco was too far gone for platitudes, excuses, misunderstandings—and my knees started to shake, and I wanted to melt into the wall, be far, far away from this conversation and the look in his eye—because this wasn't about me, not even close, and I didn't belong there.

"I was going to come back, you know," Draco said, his voice hard. "I was going to get her away and come back, because—_this_—isn't what I wanted to happen. You said we could stop it. You said—you said it wasn't going to fucking _be_ like this. You said—"

Lucius glanced at me.

"I said not _now_, Draco."

Draco stared at him—and something awful and cold slithered across his face, except disappointment was too small a word for what it was—nerve-wrecking, earth-shattering, the summation of a million different emotions, too tangled to separate, shuffled and stuffed together all at once, just like that—and I felt, in that instant, a lurch of discomfort.

Like I was intruding.

Like I shouldn't be watching, witnessing, what was happening—it was too personal, too unfamiliar, too _much_.

I took a deep breath.

_Don't look._

_ Don't look._

_ Don't—_

I shut my eyes.

"When, then, Dad?"

"When _what_?"

His voice was dripping with impatience, jarring and scarring and obvious.

"When is a good time to talk about how fucking _proud_ of me you are?"

And there it was—resentment, paralyzing and harsh, flooding the space between them, unstoppable, like putting ice cubes in an overfull water glass.

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco."

"Ridiculous?" he repeated. "_Ridiculous_?"

I winced as Lucius snorted—couldn't he see how close Draco was to falling apart? Couldn't he see what I did?

"I _trusted _you, Dad! I fucking—I fucking _trusted_ you to not act like a—a raging fucking imbecile so fixated on—on being a Pureblood that you can't even remember what's supposed to matter." He grabbed my elbow, yanking me forward. "Look at her. Look at _her_. She's a Mudblood—which I'm sure you already fucking know—and she's about a million times cleverer than me." His face softened. "Prettier, too. She's brilliant and she's brave and _she doesn't want to run away_."

"_Enough_!" Lucius roared. "Do you think I'm _insane_, Draco? Do you really think my priority right now is sabotaging your silly fucking _relationship_ with that _silly_ fucking Mudblood?"

Draco's lip curled.

"Wouldn't be the first time you came unhinged, would it?"

I gasped; Lucius, though, without warning, pointed his wand in my direction, nostrils flared.

"Where's the boy?" he barked.

"Wh—what do you mean? What boy?" I stammered.

"My son has assured me that you're intelligent," Lucius said silkily, dangerously. "Now is not the time to pretend otherwise. Where _is_ he?"

Draco's expression was murderous as he regarded his father.

"You want to know where Potter is, do you?" he snarled. "Why? So you can kill him?"

Lucius shut his eyes, as if in pain—I noticed, dimly, that the hand around his wand was shaking.

"I'm not here to kill him, Draco. I'm here to _warn_ him."

"Lucky for you, then. I already fucking did that."

"Did you? Well, then. Maybe if you stopped acting like a petulant child you would _realize_ that I know just a _tiny bit more_ than you do about what's going to happen tonight," Lucius bit out, his cheeks pink. "Granger. Tell me. Where is he?"

I threw my shoulders back and met his unnervingly aggressive stare.

"I don't know," I replied loftily. "But even if I _did_—I'd hardly tell _you_, would I?"

He studied me for a long, long moment, his expression unreadable—but then there was a shriek from the hallway, loud and alarmed and scared, and the three of us turned towards the door, Lucius holding his arms out to stop us from moving forward.

"Stay here, Draco. Don't even _think_ about leaving."

"What—where are you going?" Draco asked.

Lucius threw him a glare.

"_I'm_ going to go and see what that was," he sneered, reaching for the doorknob. "And you—_both_ of you—are going to stay here."

He disappeared out the door, shutting it firmly behind him, before either of us could answer.

"What should we do?" I immediately asked. "We need to make sure Harry's alright—what if that was Lavender? We need to—"

"We need to stay here," Draco said. "My father might be a spineless fucking prick but he's certainly not going to leave me here to die."

"Of course he wouldn't," I replied automatically. "But that doesn't change the fact that clearly something else is going on, something we don't know about, and they're after Harry, you heard him—we need to _find him_—"

There was a crash—and then the door was hanging on its hinges, fragments of splintered wood peeking out from a cloud of bright white smoke.

"Hermione?"

A whisper, tentative and soft and frightened.

"What?" I asked, my eyes trained on the wreckage by the door.

His hand, snaking out to grip my own.

"Who did that?"

A question—but I didn't have answer, I hadn't seen anything, anyone—or had I? Had I caught a glimpse of a shiny, patent-leather raincoat, heard the telltale thud of large, heavy boots smacking against the floor, muffled, encased in mud—or had I imagined it?

"Your father—he wasn't lying," I replied, my lips numb.

"_What_?"

His voice—angry, disbelieving, betrayed.

"He didn't blow up the fountain," I said, the pieces falling into place, too slowly, too late. "He would never—it was for your mother, wasn't it? His—his Laura. He would never destroy it."

Silence, too long, too full.

"So—" he started to say.

"We were wrong," I whispered, blinking back tears. "We need to find him. We need fo follow him. We need to—he was going to save Harry, wasn't he? That's what he was here to do. Not kill him. We were _wrong_, Draco."

The dust was settling, the smoke was clearing, and a bright burst of adrenaline suddenly coursed through my veins, bringing me to my feet—how had I missed it? The signs had all been there—she knew everything about Draco, she'd said so, more than once, and all those times she'd popped up, interrupted us—following him, me, undetected—the Mark, her Mark, her obsession with Draco—what else was she capable of, exactly?

"It's Pansy," I said, turning to look at him. "She followed you from her parents' house. She knew what you were going to try and do for me. She destroyed the fountain, knowing that I—_we_—would have to come back here—and she knew you'd blame your father, she knows how your brain works—your father wasn't lying—we just need to find her, I'd bet anything she's the one who's been screaming, trying to get us to think something's wrong, we just need to find her—"

He stood up, deliberately brushed off his pants, and clenched his jaw.

"Don't worry. I know exactly where she is."

OOO


	28. XXVII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

_3:15 am_

"This is stupid."

"Why? It isn't like there's anything else fucking happening. We'd hear it if there was."

"Really? Then where's your father?"

We'd had the same argument three times in forty-five minutes.

"Pansy knows something, Granger," he insisted, drumming his fingers against my knee. "Maybe even something my father doesn't. She wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to distract us if she didn't. We need to talk to her."

I leaned back into the crumbling stone wall of the abandoned dungeon classroom he'd taken us to.

"This just feels like—like we're wasting time," I replied, sighing. "We should be making sure Harry is okay, and looking for your father, not—not _waiting here_. When you said that you knew where she'd be, I assumed you meant that—oh, I don't know—_she'd actually be here_."

"She'll be here," he stated grimly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I fucking know it."

I glanced around the dilapidated little room, thoroughly unconvinced.

"Why are you so sure she'll show up?"

His posture—if it was possible—grew even stiffer.

"I just am."

"What does _that_ mean?"

He glared at the floor.

"This was where we used to meet."

"Meet?"

He swiped viciously at his hair.

"To…you know."

I blinked, confused—until I realized.

"Oh. _Oh_."

He snorted, tilting his head back.

"I know her," he said tightly. "She'll think it's romantic, to meet here before a battle. She'll think it fucking means something."

I wrinkled my nose, suddenly uncomfortable.

"So…this is where you…did _that_," I said, clearing my throat as I inspected my fingernails. "With—her."

He just looked at me, his expression blank.

"Are you fucking angry, or something?" he asked bluntly.

"No!" I said quickly, tearing at a ragged cuticle. "No, of course not. That would—that would be _stupid_ of me, wouldn't it?"

He groaned.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he said under his breath.

"I'm _not _angry," I insisted, scooting away from him.

"Sure you're not," he answered sarcastically.

"I'm _not_!"

"Look, can we not do this? We both had other…_relationships_…before each other," he said with a grimace. "That isn't a secret."

"Well, yes. But I didn't _sleep_ with anyone in my _other relationships_," I ground out.

I was irritated with myself, with him—because I wasn't sure, exactly, what I was so upset about. I'd known that I wasn't his first. I'd known that he'd been with Pansy for years. I'd known what that meant. Why, then, was I reacting like this? What was wrong with me?

"Can we please—for one fucking minute, Granger, just _one_, yeah—stop fighting?"

I opened my mouth to reply—but then I stopped.

Because even if I let this go, it wouldn't really solve anything. There would always be another fight, another argument, another reason to hate him; we were too different—but no, we weren't, we were too alike, that was it—we were both stubborn, and we were both unwilling, unable, to back down.

And things between us were never going to be easy.

But was it—was _he_—worth it?

He had already been so many things to me—

He had been unexpected.

He had been dangerous.

He had been unreal.

He had been there when I hadn't wanted anyone else, when I'd been so fixated on being alone that I could barely bother seeing a world outside of my own head—he had mocked me, shouted at me, fucked me up against a window and had the nerve to call it perfect.

Call _me _perfect.

And how was he to know that I hated that word? Hated what it meant and what it represented—hated its illusory fucking promises, the way it beckoned me, tempted me, made it seem like I could get there, eventually, if I just tried harder, if I just wanted it enough and made more sacrifices and ignored the telltale throb of nauseating disappointment, imminent failure—how was he to know if I didn't tell him?

But that wasn't what this was about.

This was inappropriate.

This was me, being frustrated—with myself, with the casual shrug of his shoulders as he confessed that this was where they'd gone, back when they'd been together, to do all the things I'd only ever wanted to do with him.

No one else.

Never anyone else.

Was that it? Sharp, tangy, bitter jealousy, like a knife against my throat—hard to swallow, harder to accept, because my brain was screeching at me, reminding me that he hated her, he was awful to her—but then why—how—what had it meant to him, then? What had _she _meant to him?

And this was the worst time, the wrong time, to be worried about this. I should have been thinking about Harry, about Voldemort; I should have been thinking about finding Lucius Malfoy, protecting the sequestered Gryffindors, making sure Draco and I lived through the night. But instead, my teeth were clenched and my pulse was racing and all I could see was his lips—soft and red, a startlingly perfect contrast to paleness of his skin—pressed against hers.

His hands—the ones that had so lovingly, so ferociously, gripped my hips as he sunk himself into me—skimming over her breasts, down her stomach, across her thighs.

His mouth, whispering things—the same things he'd whispered to me?—the words jumbled and fierce and thick with meaning. What had he said to her, when they'd been alone? What had he felt for her, when he hadn't known any better?

"I know I asked you this before—but—" I stopped, swallowed, hated myself for even wanting—no, _needing_—to hear him say it again. "Did you ever love her?"

He stared at me, incredulous, his pupils dilating as he regarded me steadily, unflinchingly—he didn't look nervous, then.

He didn't look scared.

He looked appalled, surprised, so close to anger, rage, that I found myself searching for a microscopic flutter of his nostrils, a tightening in his jaw, an unrelenting coldness leaking into his eyes.

But there was none.

He was controlling himself—tightly, rigidly.

He was refusing to give in to me, refusing to start the argument he had to know was coming.

He was—_incredible_.

"If you're asking if I _told _her that I loved her—the answer is yes," he replied, his tone clipped.

"But—"

"_But_," he continued, his gaze boring into mine. "I didn't. I didn't fucking love her. Okay?"

I felt my throat constrict with something—relief?

"Okay," I whispered.

And then he looked at his hands, flexing them, as if he couldn't quite believe they were real.

"What about Weasley?" he demanded.

"Wh—what?"

"Weasley. Did you love him?"

I stared at him, at his face—so familiar to me now—and thought about how to respond. Had I loved Ron?

Maybe.

No, that wasn't fair.

I had loved Ron.

Yes, I had.

But it hadn't been—like this. It hadn't been explosive. It hadn't been wonderful. It had—made sense. It had been something warm and pleasant and inconsequential. It hadn't made my head hurt, my chest ache, my spine tingle—it hadn't felt like this, not even a little bit. When Ron had broken up with me, I had hardly even been upset; it was the rejection, not losing him, that had stung so much. How to explain that, though? How to make him see?

"I did," I replied, glancing at the floor. "I did love him. But—"

"But what?" he grunted, fidgeting, refusing to look at me—and it was that act, that tiny act of rebellion, that made it clear to me, what I had to do, what I had to say.

I took a deep breath.

"But it doesn't matter."

He froze.

"Why?"

"Because. He isn't you," I said simply.

"Well—_clearly_ he isn't me," he retorted. "I'm not a redheaded fucking prat with more freckles than brain cells. What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"It's—it's like—" I broke off, started over. "I was with Ron for almost two years, you know. _Two years_. And we'd been friends—best friends—for ages before that. And when we started dating, finally, I kept waiting for it to be different. I kept waiting to feel something besides—besides _mild interest_. It wasn't just that I didn't want to sleep with him. I thought that was because I was—I just assumed there was something _wrong_ with me. I never thought—"

"That you'd like sex?"

I blushed.

"Right. It was…_foreign_ to me. But that's not what I'm trying to say. What I'm getting at—is that for years and years, I took care of Ron and Harry. I got them out of trouble. I made them study. I put their bloody fucking vegetables on their bloody fucking plates at dinner. And when Ron and I got together, I just—I kept waiting for something to change."

"You wanted _him_ to take care of _you_, you mean."

I smiled, faintly.

"Yes, I suppose."

"You wanted him to protect you."

"No. No. That's not—that isn't what I mean. Ron would have died for me. I know that. But _knowing_ that and—and _feeling _that are two different things."

"I don't understand."

"Ron would have protected me because—because I was his _friend_. Because I was his girlfriend. Because it's what he was _supposed_ to do. But you—"

He was staring at my lips, his expression intent.

"What?" he asked. "What would I do?"

"You—_you'd_ protect me because you think I'm someone worth protecting," I replied.

He reached forward, his thumb grazing my chin.

"And that's why it's different," I finished softly. "That's why he doesn't matter. He never made me feel like that. I was a chore for him—a _difficult _chore—and with you—I'm _not_. You make me feel—and, please, please don't laugh, because this sounds so silly I can't even believe it's coming out of my mouth—but—you make me feel…_precious_. Special."

His eyes darkened.

"Oh, Hermione," he whispered, running his hands down my arms. "You have no fucking idea, do you?"

My skin tingled as his fingers trailed across my body.

"Wh—what?" I stammered.

"What you are," he said, skimming his lips over my wrist. "You're not just _difficult_."

He kissed the inside of my elbow.

"I—I'm not?" I gasped.

His teeth nipped at my flesh.

"Oh, no. You're not. You're fucking impossible."

Another kiss, another harsh, helpless loss of breath.

"You're fucking insufferable."

Lips, his lips, hovering over my skin, fluttering and soft.

"You're fucking _maddening_, all of the time, usually without even fucking trying."

And there was his mouth, an inch, less than an inch, away from my own, and I felt my tongue dart out, involuntarily, to wet my lips.

"But do you know what else you are?" he asked, dragging his fingernails up my leg.

I shook my head, frantically, pressing my thighs together.

"You're more than special. You're more than—_precious_," he sneered.

I felt the muscles in my abdomen start to quiver, waiting for something, anticipating, aching, _needing_—

"You're—_mine_."

And then his lips touched mine, just the faintest, briefest brush, and I felt him smirk.

"You're—"

"Yes, Draco, what else _is_ she, exactly? Besides a filthy little Mudblood."

He whipped his head around, wand at the ready, and growled.

"_Pansy_."

Her name, just her name—that's all he said, and even in my stupefied state I could hear the venom, the hatred—and I shivered.

"Draco," she purred, moving further into the room.

Her navy wool skirt was splattered with mud, her tights torn at the knees; she was still wearing the clunky black boots, bright green clumps of grass stuck to the bottoms, and the ugly, patent-leather raincoat.

"Why'd you do it?" he demanded aggressively, getting to his feet. "Why the fuck did you do it?"

She cocked her head to the side, puzzled.

"Whatever do you mean, Draco?"

His lip curled.

"Oh, Pansy. Surely you realize by now that you don't have to try so _very hard_ to act stupid?" he drawled. "After all, you have _such_ a natural talent for it."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Fine. We'll do this your way," she snapped. "I destroyed that hideous fucking fountain because I wasn't going to let you get yourself killed for—for protecting—_that_. I mean, _seriously_, Draco."

I arched a brow, standing up and stepping out from behind him.

"Fuck off," I said, my tone pleasant. "_Seriously_."

"What the fuck is going on?" Draco asked. "And not just the fucking fountain, Pansy. What happened to my father? Why'd you blow up the door to that classroom we were in? Why were you fucking _screaming_ to get our attention?"

"_Our_ attention?" she repeated, sneering. "Someone switched sides awfully quick, didn't they?"

He smirked, pointedly draping an arm over my shoulders.

"I had a compelling reason."

Her cheeks flooded with color.

"You _still _don't get it, do you?" she hissed. "She's your _death sentence_, Draco. She isn't going to survive this, and if you keep _stupidly insisting_ on standing next to her, _neither will you_."

His grip tightened.

"Is that really what you came down here to say?"

Her expression changed then, a sinister sort of shiftiness taking over as she wrinkled her nose.

"Of course not." Without warning, her gaze flickered over to me. "So—he lies to you about something like this, and you actually take him back? You're _pathetic_, Granger."

I lifted my chin.

"You caught him _shagging _me in the Astronomy Tower," I pointed out sweetly. "And _you_ were still going to take him back. That's a little bit _more_ than pathetic—"

"Where the fuck is my father, Pansy?" Draco interrupted impatiently.

She snickered.

"Oh, I'm _sure_ I don't know," she cooed. "Although—the Dark Lord was _very_ unhappy with the way he dashed over here without permission. Whatever could he have been thinking, Draco?"

Draco took a faltering step forward.

"What the fuck did you do to him," he whispered.

It wasn't a question.

"Tsk, tsk," she pouted. "Always thinking the worst of me, aren't you?"

"You conniving little cu—"

"_Where is he_?" I cut in.

She twisted her mouth thoughtfully.

"It's a gigantic castle, isn't it? I mean—he could be _anywhere_."

Abruptly, Draco pointed his wand at her chest.

"_Do you really fucking think I won't hurt you_?" he roared, approaching her slowly, steadily, the muscles in his neck corded and visible and so, so angry. "Do you really think you fucking mean _anything_ to me? That I'm going to stand here and play your stupid fucking games—actually _wait_ for you to fucking tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?"

She paled.

"You wouldn't—"

"Oh, no, believe me—_I definitely fucking would_."

She shuddered.

"The Great Hall," she finally said, her voice scratchy. "That's where—that's where it's supposed to happen. That's where I sent him."

"Then what was the point in getting us down here?" I asked suddenly. "If that's where everyone else is."

Her eyes never left Draco's as she replied.

"I wanted to give Draco one last chance. To—to come back. To leave you behind. To remember how much I—how much I _love_ him."

He snorted derisively; she flinched.

"You're fucking delusional."

And then he grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the door, his expression ferocious.

"Wait," I said quietly, turning back towards Pansy.

I tilted my head, studying her, wondering, almost dispassionately, what it would feel like to be her—rejected, humiliated, robbed of the only person she thought she'd ever loved; the only person she'd thought had ever loved her back. Would it hurt? Would it justify the things she'd said, the things she'd done—all for him? All to get him back?

I raised my wand.

"_Stupefy_."

I watched, unblinking, as her body crumpled to the floor.

"What was that for?"

"I don't want her to get away when this is all over," I said softly. "She doesn't deserve it."

He almost smiled, tugging my hand as we raced out of the dungeons and through the hallways. There was a peculiar desperation to our sprinting this time around—because we were at the end, finally, because this was it, and as we skidded to a breathless halt in the entrance hall, he caught me around the waist, his expression serious.

"I know you won't listen to me if I tell you to stay out here."

There was a faint rumble from inside the Great Hall.

"Then don't tell me to."

He cupped my face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over my cheeks.

"I love you, you know."

"Even though it's only been a week? A bit premature, isn't it?"

He smirked, faintly.

"I mentioned earlier, didn't I, how fucking impossible you are?"

I swallowed.

"You might have."

He shut his eyes.

"Please don't die, Granger."

A loud crash sounded from behind the doors.

"I hadn't planned on it."

His jaw twitched.

"There's so much I want to say to you right now," he whispered, leaning forward, his forehead touching mine.

"I know."

"But I don't know how."

His breath was hot against my skin.

"You can tell me later, if that helps."

His arms tightened around me.

"It does."

He released me, turning towards the doors.

"See you afterwards?" he asked casually, the only outward sign of his nerves the slight, barely discernible tremble in his voice.

"Afterwards," I nodded, reaching for the door handle.

"I know I already said it, but—"

I pulled down.

"I love you, too, Malfoy."

Pushed the doors open.

And then—

And then—

The world lurched.

Tilted.

Stopped and shook and burst into a million tiny pieces—but suddenly there were screams, high-pitched and horrible, and shouting and yelling and noise, so much fucking noise, like nothing I'd ever heard before, exploding in my ears like thunder, like fireworks, and the chaos, it was indescribable, it was terrifying, and there were flashes of light, green and silver and red and a sea of people—black robes, swishing cloaks, hideous white masks that made them interchangeable, indistinguishable—and I caught my breath, unable to move, unable to blink, the horror and the pressure and the reality of the moment so much, too much, and it was like trying to run from a tidal wave until you realize, you remember that you can't, and then there's nothing left but you and an unbreakable, unbelievable wall of water and the acrid taste of your own fear—metallic and undeniable and laced with something else, something bitter, something that feels rather a lot like shame—

I snapped my head up, reverie broken, and looked for Draco. Because I needed him, I needed to know he was safe, I needed to know he would make it out of this, because he shouldn't be here, this was all my fucking fault, my stupid, _stupid_ fucking fault, and if he died—if he died—I couldn't let him, I couldn't let him die, but wait, wait, there he was, thick blond hair dark with sweat, plastered to his neck, his face, and his features—beautifully even, perfectly symmetrical—contorted in a grimace, an angry red scratch zigzagging across his cheek—he was dueling with someone, someone in a mask, and my heart clenched, almost painfully, with pride.

Because he was fighting.

Because he was _mine_.

He—the boy who had said, on more than one occasion, that he wasn't brave, he wasn't a hero, he didn't want to be here—was fighting.

And as I watched his lips spit out a curse, watched him flick his wand up and around in a complicated pattern—so graceful, so fantastically fucking graceful—the man he was standing in front of rolled up his sleeves and snarled—

"_Avada_—"

There was a sudden silence in my head, utterly consuming and oppressive and pushing at me from every conceivable angle—

_No._

_No._

_No_—_no_—_no_—and before I could think, before I could understand the enormity of what I was about to do—I had elbowed the Death Eater to the side, jostling him, startling him, and the curse—that horrible fucking curse—had hit the wall next to Draco's head, scorching the stone in a blast of neon green sparks.

"What the fucking fuck—"

It was a male voice, deep and guttural and threatening, and that was all I managed to focus on before he had spun towards me, wand raised, and then I was staring, dizzy and disconcerted, at a shiny white mask with gaping black holes where the eyes should have been—it was inhuman, it was horrific, it was an excuse, that's what it was, an excuse to do what he wanted, what he pleased, without recrimination or regret or even blame—and I was struck by the fact that I was about to die, surely I was about to die, and I couldn't even get a glimpse of the man who was going to kill me.

"Hermione!" I heard Draco shout, his voice strained and scratchy and desperate, so desperate.

But the Death Eater had already said something else, something I couldn't catch, the words dripping across his tongue like poison, swift, deadly, familiar, and there was no time, no time, I'd finally run out of time—

And then—

And then—

There was nothing.

There was nothing.

There was nothing, less than nothing, an eerie sort of blankness that had no beginning and no end and certainly no in between—an abyss, then, like an inky black sky devoid of stars, wrong, so wrong, everything was wrong.

It was a nightmare, I wanted to wake up, I wanted to cry, I wanted to feel something, anything, just not this, just not nothing.

So much nothing.

And still, still, there was nothing.

There was—

No.

There was something.

I gasped.

I arched my back.

There was something.

There was something.

There was—

There was _pain_.

OOO


	29. XXVIII

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

_11:30 a.m._

The bed was soft.

My entire body felt broken—beyond belief, really—but the bed was soft.

"Are you finally awake? Miss Granger?"

The voice was grating and feminine and completely unfamiliar.

I winced.

"Miss Granger!"

I didn't know where I was—I didn't know who I was with—but the bed was soft.

"Open your eyes, Miss Granger."

Should I? That seemed like such a silly thing to do—there was, after all, a ferocious pounding in my head, angry spurts of blood thrumming against my skull, vivid and harsh and stupidly methodical—and I still didn't know where I was.

The bed, though—the bed was so soft, so incredibly fucking soft.

"Where—where am I?" I finally managed to croak, surprised by how raspy my voice was.

The woman, whoever she was, sighed.

"Malfoy Manor," she replied testily.

My eyes snapped open; I blinked, flinching at the light, and waited for my vision to adjust.

"Nar—Mrs. Malfoy?" I blurted out, gaping at the statuesque blonde standing at the foot of the bed—the soft bed, too soft, feather-soft.

She offered me a thin-lipped smile.

"Indeed."

"How—what—"

She raised a finely-arched brow.

"You don't remember anything, do you?"

I fidgeted under her scrutiny, glancing anxiously around the room—a boy's bedroom, I realized, taking in the Quidditch posters and the dark green curtains and the haphazard collection of textbooks and magazines collecting dust in the bookshelves.

"There was—fighting," I answered quickly, scrunching crisp black sheets between my fingers. "Draco was dueling…and then there was a man, in a mask, and—I died, didn't I?"

She shifted, almost imperceptibly.

"Clearly you did not _die_, Miss Granger."

"Then what—"

"I'm sure Draco should be the one to explain," she interrupted, waving a vague, graceful hand in my direction.

"He's—he's alright, then? Draco?" I asked timidly.

Her eyes turned cold.

"My son is fine, Miss Granger. No thanks to you. He nearly killed himself trying to transport you here."

There was a peculiar ache in my chest as I stared at her.

"What do you mean?" I whispered.

Narcissa sneered.

"He was in quite the state," she said icily. "There was blood…everywhere. Took the elves hours to clean up. And you—well, _you _were no use at all. He had to carry you all the way from the school to the Apparition point in the village."

"But he's okay now?" I persisted.

She nodded sharply.

"He's sleeping."

I relaxed.

"What about—everyone else?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"It should have been a slaughter, from all accounts," she sniffed, straightening her already-straight shoulders. "Twice as many Death Eaters as there were teachers. If it hadn't been for the Zabini boy—well. I imagine losing the element of surprise was a…_particular_ blow to the Dark Lord. The school was absolutely teeming with Aurors by the time anyone got there."

I was incredulous. All of that panic—all of that incessant fucking worry—and for nothing?

"So Harry—"

"Harry Potter is alive and well."

"And Voldemort—"

"The Dark Lord is dead," she confirmed with very little discernible feeling.

"The castle, though—"

"The school is…_intact_, Miss Granger," she said snidely. "There were very few casualties."

I let this sink in.

"_Very few _still means there were some," I pointed out.

I watched, fascinated, as she clasped her hands together.

"My sister, Bellatrix."

I looked away.

"My husband did it, in case you were curious," she went on, ignoring my discomfort. "She was after you and Draco."

"Lucius Malfoy killed her?" I bleated.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, Miss Granger. He did."

"I—I mean—"

"Your condolences aren't necessary, I assure you," she interjected. "My sister was a…_difficult_ woman. Life was never very kind to her."

Abruptly, she turned towards the door.

"I'll have someone send Draco in, if you're feeling up to it."

"Thank you," I said thickly. "Really. Thank you so much."

She smoothed the front of her dress down, as if embarrassed by my gratitude.

"Well. Of course you're welcome."

She paused.

"There are some cookies on the nightstand, by the way. I don't make them, of course—an elf does—but don't tell Draco that. He adores them—thinks they're a family recipe." She smiled fondly, just for a second. "Silly boy."

And then she was gone—in a whirl of expensive perfume and superfine silk, her scent lingering in the air long after her footsteps had receded down the hallway.

I settled back into the bed, my head spinning as I thought about what she'd just told me.

It was over.

It was all finally over.

"Hermione?"

I started.

_Draco_.

He gently shut the door behind him and approached me.

"You're awake," he said dumbly, staring.

"Your mother woke me," I replied.

He looked tired. He was still wearing his school uniform—a dirty white Oxford, smeared with blood, and grimy black trousers, slung low on his hips. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his tie was loose around his neck. I felt my pulse skip, jump, and turn skittish as he got closer—because I wanted to touch him.

I wanted to touch him, and the bed was soft.

"I can't believe…" he trailed off, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm so glad you're alright."

"From what I understand, I should thank _you_ for that," I tried to joke, my voice weak.

But he didn't laugh.

"No, you shouldn't."

I pursed my lips, confused.

"What happened to me?"

A shadow passed over his face.

"Cruciatus," he said softly. "An Unforgivable. That Death Eater—he knew who you were, and he wanted to—Aunt Bella had apparently talked about you. You were…something of a target. Or a trophy. I'm not sure."

I gulped.

"Oh."

"Except—it was a bit odd, because you didn't…react to it at first. It was almost as if your body didn't want to respond."

"I thought I was dying," I explained, twisting the sheets in my hand. "I thought I was dead."

He shook his head.

"That shouldn't have made a difference."

I sighed.

"Do you expect me to have a rational explanation? I don't even remember what happened."

"No. Of course not. It was just…it was odd. It took me—and him—by surprise. Which was handy, as it turns out, because that was when my father showed up."

"How is your father? Is he…okay?"

"He's in Azkaban again, actually."

I gaped at him.

"_What_?"

"It's a formality, I think. There were plenty of witnesses that can attest to—well, it was obvious whose side he was on," he said awkwardly.

What was wrong? He was gazing at me with concern, yes, but there was something else there as well, something that made me nervous.

"Your mother brought me cookies," I said abruptly, needing to fill the silence.

"Did she pretend that she was the one who made them?" he asked with a grin.

"No, although—she _did_ instruct me to not ever tell you that it's the house elves who do," I replied wryly.

His smile faded.

"We need to talk, Hermione."

"That sounds awfully ominous."

"I'm serious."

"I couldn't tell."

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, mussing it even more.

"I can't do this," he said quietly. "I can't—we don't belong together. After everything that's gone wrong—I mean, fuck, maybe we should just take the fucking hint."

Something small and hard flared to life inside of my stomach.

"Take the fucking hint," I echoed.

"Yeah. There's just so much—_too much_, really—to get past. I just—I can't."

I cocked my head to the side, disbelieving.

"_Really_, Draco? After yesterday—after last night—I mean, you were so _wonderful_—you're choosing _now_, when everything hard—the _difficult_ part—is already fucking over—you're thinking _now_ is a good time to turn into a _coward_?"

His jaw tensed.

"Always nice to hear what you really think of me, Granger," he bit out, turning to leave.

"Wait—stop, please, that isn't what I meant," I argued feebly, deflating. "You _know_ that isn't what I meant."

He curled his lip.

"Do I?" he countered.

I flinched, placing a tentative hand on his arm.

"Draco, why are you doing this?" I whispered.

"Doing what?" he snarled, wrenching himself away from me and stalking to the other side of the room.

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

"You know exactly what you're doing," I said firmly, toying with the edge of my pillowcase. "You're—you're reading into things and twisting them around and pushing me away. And I want to know _why_."

He didn't reply for a long moment, his eyes trained on the wall behind me—beautiful eyes, normally such a sharp, piercing grey—but now, now they were curiously blank, a dull pewter, the mesmerizing ring of navy around the iris almost entirely invisible.

"You almost died," he replied unexpectedly, curtly. "You—you almost fucking died, and it was because of me. It was _for_ me."

I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say.

"But I didn't," I finally said, swallowing. "I didn't die, Draco."

He studied me for a long moment before slowly coming towards the bed again—the soft bed, so incredibly soft.

"But you could have. You almost did. You don't know—you wouldn't wake up, Hermione, _you wouldn't fucking wake up_—do you understand what that felt like?"

I recoiled.

"I don't suppose I do."

"I've been a shitty fucking person for quite a long time," he said coolly, reaching up to adjust his tie. "I'm not a saint. I'm not a hero. I'm—I'm uncommonly fucking selfish, in fact. I'm—"

"Oh—_shut up_, Draco," I burst out, frustrated. "I already _know_ all of that. I hated you for seven years, in case you've forgotten—I know exactly how awful you can be."

"Then you know—"

"Do you love me?" I demanded.

He rolled his eyes.

"Of course I fucking love you," he said roughly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "That isn't the fucking point."

"You sound ridiculous—you realize that, don't you?"

"I might."

I reached for his hand, flinching when he pulled away.

"Why are you doing this, then?"

"Because I almost got you killed, Hermione! I watched that fucking Death Eater turn towards you and raise his wand and I couldn't even fucking—I couldn't fucking _move_, it was like I was paralyzed, and I—I can't forgive myself for that, don't you get it?"

I inhaled sharply at his outburst.

"All those things—all those awful fucking things I was—_am_—they never mattered to me before," he admitted tightly. "Never. I was an arrogant little shit, and I couldn't have cared any fucking less. But—then—last night, it suddenly fucking mattered."

I hesitated.

"I don't understand."

He glanced away, his eyes raking over the walls, the bed, the windows—anywhere, it seemed, but me.

"I could have told you about the attack," he whispered. "I could have figured out a way to not get Marked. I could have fucking—I could have fucking _prevented_ last night from ever fucking happening and—I didn't. I was scared. I was weak. I was exactly who I knew how to be—_and it almost got you killed_. Do you get it now?"

I shook my head.

"Draco, it was a _battle_," I said soothingly. "I would have been in danger no matter what. What happened to me—it would have happened regardless. It had nothing to do with you."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his posture defeated.

"You don't fucking understand."

I furrowed my brow, inexplicably stung by his comment.

"No, I _understand_ perfectly," I replied defensively. "I just think you're being—"

"Ridiculous," he finished tiredly, flopping onto his back.

I shut my mouth.

"I'm sorry, Draco, but—I'm _alive_. I'm okay. You _made sure_ I was okay."

He rolled over to face me, his expression thoughtful.

"I did, didn't I?"

And then he was crawling towards me, his eyes fastened on my mouth, and I promptly forgot how to breathe.

"This is my bedroom, you know," he said, draping his body over my own. "I grew up in here. And you, sweetheart, are lying in _my_ bed right now. My sheets, my pillows—how does that make you feel?"

His bed, of course it was his bed—and it was soft, so soft.

"Warm," I answered truthfully.

He chuckled, leaning forward to brush his lips over mine.

"You're also wearing my pajamas, Granger—did you know that?" he murmured into my ear, trailing his fingers down the satiny green fabric.

"No, I—I didn't."

"Mmm. Yes. Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you look in them?" he continued, his voice a deep, melodic purr.

I shook my head, frantically.

He smirked.

And then he'd ripped open my top, tearing it, uncaring of the way the shiny black buttons flew off and pinged against the walls, some landing on the floor, some falling back onto the bed—so soft, the bed was so soft.

"I think, though, that I prefer you naked," he said, skimming his hands over my chest, my arms, my stomach. He straddled my hips, tugging my pants down, before planting a fluttery, sensuous kiss on the curve of my waist.

"Do—do you?" I asked, arching my back as his tongue delved into the sensitive hollow between my breasts.

"The first time I saw you like this—bloody fucking hell, Hermione, I wasn't sure I was going to last long enough to be able to make it good for you," he confessed, glancing up at me.

"Wh—what d'you mean?" I managed to pant when I felt his hand creep up my inner thigh.

"I _mean_ that I would have started being nice to you a lot fucking sooner if I'd known how fucking delectable you looked without a skirt on," he replied, shrugging off his shirt impatiently.

"You were hardly nice to me," I felt compelled to point out, watching him unbuckle his belt.

"That's true," he conceded, hopping off of the bed to divest himself of his trousers. "But I think you liked it."

I bit back a moan at the loss of contact.

"Impatient, are you?"

"You could say that," I answered, licking my lips.

He climbed back on top of me; our eyes met.

"Am I the only one who's ever made you feel like this, Granger?"

His gaze was intent, almost predatory, and I felt my heart constrict.

"You know you are."

He leaned down, running his tongue along my bottom lip before biting down.

"Not fucking good enough," he whispered savagely. "Say it. Say I'm the only one who's ever done this to you."

"You—you're the only one," I breathed.

"I'm the only one who's done what?" he demanded.

"You—" I paused, groaning when his thumb curled over the front of my knickers. "You're the only one who's ever made me feel this way."

"I'm the only one who's ever going to fucking do this to you," he said hoarsely, his face tense as I pushed my hips up, grinding myself into his hand. "Say it. _Say it_."

"You're the only one, Draco," I mumbled, lightheaded from the feel of his hands—large hands, long fingers, pale and strong and soft, so soft, like his bed, just like his bed—roaming over my body. "You're the only one who's ever going to do this to me."

"And you want this? You want me? You're fucking _mine_, aren't you?" he snarled, yanking my underwear down my legs.

"Y—yes," I stammered, kicking off the offending garment when it got stuck around my ankles.

"Yes?" he pressed. "_Fucking say it_, say it, say you're mine."

"I'm—I'm—"

"You need me, don't you? You fucking need me. You fucking want this. You fucking want me, right now, don't you? _Say it_, say you fucking want me, Granger."

His words had a hypnotizing effect on me, though, and I could barely wrap my lips around a response before he was continuing.

"You're mine, I need you to say it—you want this, you fucking want me. Tell me how much you want this, fucking say it, _say it_, you're mine, fucking mine—"

"I don't know—" I whimpered.

"Say it," he hissed. "Fucking _say it_, Granger."

But he felt so good, an enchanting, almost too-heavy weight pressing into my body—and he couldn't possibly expect me to speak, not now, not like this, not with his skin rubbing against mine, roughly, silkily, with his hands gripping my thighs, wrenching them apart—he couldn't possibly expect me to be anything but lost, dizzy, my toes curled, anticipating, needing, wanting—and as he thrust into me, and I cried out, I had the most asinine thought, so inappropriate, so ridiculous, so—

"We've never done it in a bed before," I murmured, gasping when I felt his teeth nip at my ear.

"That isn't what I told you to say," he replied angrily, trailing his fingers down my legs before hitching them around my knees.

My head fell back, exposing my throat.

"I don't—"

He pushed up on my legs—I exhaled, loudly, helplessly, surprised by the change in position.

"_Say it_, Granger."

The friction was exquisite, and I tried to focus, tried to concentrate, tried to think of a word to describe the feeling of his body so completely connected to my own—but all I could feel was a senseless, delicious pulsing in my abdomen, a desperate, aching emptiness when he pulled out—

It was euphoric.

It was magnetic.

It was _wet_.

Tremendously wet, unimaginably wet, hot and sticky and smooth, like melted chocolate, like honey and tea and treacle and toffee, sweet and delectable and _oh_, oh God, the bed was soft, that was what I needed to remember, the bed was fucking soft, the bed was so fucking soft—

"Say it," he repeated, his teeth clenched as he ground against me, into me. "Say you need me. Say you want this. Say you're mine. _Say you fucking want me, Granger_."

I bit my lip, holding back a scream—and then I felt his hand on my chin, jerking my head down, and I opened my eyes, blinking blearily, my mind glazed, dazed—and I was jolted, thrown back into reality, utterly unprepared for the intensity of the moment, because his gaze was deadly and desperate and—_feral_, that was what it was, it was wild, unfiltered, so unlike the primly polished silver I was used to—and then I shuddered.

Because I wasn't certain of what was happening.

Because I wasn't certain of what he was asking.

Because I wasn't certain of anything, not anymore, and despite the delightful throbbing between my thighs, I was suddenly cold.

"I want—" I broke off, unsure.

He stopped moving, the muscles in his shoulders bunched up and strained as he held himself above me.

"_Say it_," he whispered.

And then, without any warning at all, I was nervous.

Apprehensive.

My stomach—it clenched, rolled, unpleasant and unexpected, and even though he was still inside of me, still staring at me, still touching me—I knew that something was wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Because of course he knew that I wanted him.

Of course he did.

Which meant—this wasn't about that. This was about something else, something I didn't understand.

"Draco—" I began cautiously.

"Why won't you just—fucking _say it_?" he growled, yanking my hips even closer, burying himself even deeper. "Say it, Hermione, just—say it, say you want this, say you're mine, say you want _me_, say it, please, please—_say it_—"

"I don't—"

"I need you—I need you to say it," he interrupted roughly. "I need you to fucking say it, and I need you to fucking mean it, and, oh, _fuck_—_I fucking need you_, Hermione, you don't—you can't—when I saw you go down—_I couldn't stop it_, I couldn't fucking save you, I couldn't—I couldn't stop it, I couldn't stop it, I'm so fucking sorry, I'm fucking sorry—I don't deserve you, I've known it all along, I fucking—I should have let you push me away, I shouldn't have tried so hard—I couldn't fucking stop it, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I don't know how to stop this, and I _need_ you, I don't know when it happened, I don't know when it changed, but this isn't—it isn't about wanting you so much I can't see straight, not anymore, and it took—it took me almost losing you to fucking see that, and I can't—I need you to say it, I need you to be mine, I need to hear you say it—I'm so fucking sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, please, please don't leave—I'm so sorry, Hermione—"

I laid beneath him, in his amazingly soft bed, stunned into silence, hearing words—so many words—tumble out of his mouth, unstoppable, incoherent—and I wanted to cry.

Because I'd been so dismissive, because I hadn't wanted to listen, because I'd been convinced that I was right.

Because I was always right.

Because I didn't know how to be wrong.

"Draco, it wasn't your fault," I managed to say, running my hands up his chest.

"_Yes, it fucking was_," he choked out. "It was all my fucking fault and—I can't—I love you—I need you to say it—_fucking say it_—"

But then he started moving again, harder, faster, as if he'd just remembered where he was, what he was doing—and I gasped at the sensation, staring up at his face, his eyes never leaving mine as he thrust even harder, even faster—and I gripped the sheets between my fingers, my breathing erratic, uneven, and my lungs felt like they might collapse as the pressure in my abdomen suddenly expanded, erupted, and still, still he went harder, faster, and there was a violence to it, an aggression that hadn't been there before, and I felt a shiver at the base of my spine, but surely I wasn't afraid, not of him, never of him—harder, faster, again and again and again—and a scream clawed its way out of my throat, loud, defenseless, and I watched his features contort with something, something different, as if he was in pain, but that wouldn't make any sense, not when he—harder, faster, harder, faster, over and over—

"Fuck!" he shouted, shuddering, collapsing on top of me.

I snaked my arms around his shoulders, ignoring the warm, clammy feeling of our sweaty bodies pressed together.

"_Say it_, please," he slurred into my neck. "Please, Hermione. Please say it. I need you—I need you to say it."

I held him closer, tighter.

"I'm yours," I whispered tremulously. "I'm yours, and I need you, and I want you. I want you so much. I want this. I'm _yours_, Draco."

He leaned back, just the tiniest bit, and hungrily searched my face.

"Mine," he confirmed, his voice gruff.

"Yours."

He kissed me, then.

He kissed me, and the bed was still soft.

OOO


	30. XXIX

**Difficult**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE**

_Three Weeks Later_

"—he hasn't said a _word_ to her, though! In weeks! I don't care what the _Prophet_ says—there's nothing going on between them, not anymore."

"But the way he _stares_ at her—it's like he wants to…_you know_. It's indecent!"

The fourth-year Hufflepuffs seated in front of me giggled before trying to hush one another.

"I don't think it counts as indecent if staring's all he's doing."

The smaller girl sighed wistfully.

"Well, _I_ think that it's sad that it isn't true…they were so perfect! The Slytherin Prince and the Gryffindor Princess, together forever despite the overwhelming odds—it would have been _such_ a romantic story!"

I choked on my pumpkin juice.

_How ludicrous_.

It had been three weeks since Harry had defeated Voldemort. Three weeks since Pansy Parkinson and her parents had been sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, and Blaise Zabini had been proclaimed a hero. Three weeks since I'd been hit with the _Cruciatus_ curse and woken up in Draco Malfoy's bed.

Three weeks since he'd last spoken to me.

I'd thought, at first, that he was simply embarrassed by his breakdown the morning after the battle. I'd thought he needed some space—it had been so intense, everything about our relationship had been so incredibly fucking intense, that I could understand the desire for distance.

Room to think, room to breathe.

And so I hadn't pushed him. I hadn't gone to the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night, hoping to find him. I hadn't sent him any letters or bothered to follow him out the door after breakfast. I'd waited, even when the _Daily Prophet_ ran a silly story about our alleged affair—_Harry Potter's Sidekick Finds Love with Reformed Death Eater_. I had scoffed at the headline, diligently ignoring the twittering whispers that had erupted in the Great Hall.

But that had been two weeks ago.

And Draco been watching me ever since.

His gaze was penetrating in a way that should have been discomfiting—a prickly sense of awareness would wash over me when I felt him staring, his expression ferocious, unrelenting, unreadable. But I would find, when I turned to study him, that I couldn't look away, not even for a second—and then there would be panic, waves of it, because I felt caught, captured, as if my eyes were utterly incapable of focusing on anything but him, and there was no escaping it, no escaping him.

But still, still he didn't speak to me.

"Don't be stupid, Victoria," the bigger of the two girls was saying in a patronizing tone. "It's hardly romantic if he's ignoring her."

Abruptly, I got to my feet, my appetite vanishing.

How had this happened? I'd been so sure—so _certain_. What had changed? What had gone wrong? Why didn't he want me anymore?

I speedily exited the castle, noting with some irritation that it was a perfectly stunning spring day—the sky was blue and the grass was green and there was a serene sort of warmth permeating the crisp, clean air. I stalked towards the lake, plopping unceremoniously on a large grey rock, and began to remove my shoes. After ripping my tights off and watching them flutter to the ground, I leaned backwards, letting my head hit the stone, and stretched my legs out in front of me, my toes pointed inward.

This was nice.

This was pleasant.

This was normal.

This was _comfortable_.

But then I heard footsteps approach me from behind and inwardly grumbled. Why couldn't anyone just leave me alone?

"Hermione? What are you doing out here? Why aren't you at lunch?"

I slowly maneuvered myself back into a sitting position. _Ron_. Of course it would be Ron.

"Hufflepuffs," I answered tiredly, unwilling to expend the energy to explain myself.

He made a face.

"What?"

I waved vaguely.

"Gossip."

He scratched his nose.

"Do I only get one word at a time?"

I didn't bother with a verbal response.

"Look, 'Mione, I know we aren't…I know we didn't really ever clear the air or anything like that, but—I can't help but notice that lately you've looked, well, _peaky_—so, I just thought I'd ask—are you okay?"

I sighed, long and loud.

"I'm fine, Ronald."

He kicked at the grass.

"No, you're not. Harry says you've barely been eating."

I pursed my lips.

"Why is Harry always sending people out here to so _helpfully_ inquire about my wellbeing?" I demanded. "First Parvati, now you…if he's so bloody fucking worried, he should talk to me himself!"

"Harry didn't _send_ me," Ron replied, bristling. "I just—I saw you rushing out here, and you appeared _distressed_, so I thought I'd—you know what, _never mind_. It doesn't matter."

I let out a frustrated groan.

"Oh, Ronald—stop it," I snapped. "I'm sorry. Your concern is—thoughtful. And appreciated. Really. I'm just…I'm annoyed."

"By what?"

I swallowed.

"People won't stop talking about it. About _me_," I confessed awkwardly.

His eyes softened.

"I know. And I _am_ sorry about that, 'Mione, but I can't say that I'm not glad you didn't come to your senses, even if—"

"Come to my—_what_?" I interrupted.

"You broke up with Malfoy." He stopped, confused. "Didn't you?"

I stared at him, incredulous.

"No," I said slowly. "I didn't. Who told you that?"

"No one, I just assumed, since you weren't talking—"

"Well, that isn't what happened," I retorted, brushing my hands over my thighs.

"Oh," he said dumbly. "What _did_ happen, then?"

I picked at my cuticles for a long moment.

"Honestly? I don't really know. I thought things were going to be finally work. I thought it would be okay. I thought…" I trailed off.

"You _wanted_ things to work out with _him_?"

I tapped my fingers against my leg.

"_Obviously_. Why is that so hard to believe?"

He gaped at me.

"Because—because he's brainwashed you, 'Mione!" he sputtered.

"Come up with that all on your own?" I asked sarcastically.

"I'm serious! It's—it's fucking _Malfoy_ you've gone mental over! You don't find that the tiniest bit _strange_?" he demanded.

"Not really," I replied, shrugging. "He's actually rather wonderful."

"He's an inbred little rodent!"

I sighed.

"I'm not having this conversation with you again. My relationship with Draco has nothing to do with you."

He sneered.

"_What_ relationship? Last I heard, he wasn't even talking to you."

I recoiled.

"It's more complicated than that."

"No, 'Mione, it isn't. He's a git. A slimy, useless, disgusting Slytherin _git_. That isn't complicated at _all_."

I sniffed, clenching my jaw.

"I think you should go back to the castle now, Ron," I suggested icily. "Before you say something you regret."

He shook his head.

"You deserve better," he insisted stubbornly.

I scoffed.

"Don't you have anything better to do? Like chase after Lavender?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"I'm just trying to be a _friend_, Hermione," he countered, turning away from me. "I thought that's what you wanted."

"If you really want to be my friend then you'll fucking drop it! You're acting as if I—as if I fucking _planned_ this, like I did it to get back at you or something—which is just so—so _stupid_!"

He hitched his bag higher up on his shoulder, his eyes flashing.

"Kind of a moot point, now, isn't it? It isn't as if he wants anything to do with you."

Before I could say anything—and really, what was there for me to say?—a new voice emerged from behind the trees.

"Why don't you take the hint and go fuck yourself, Weasley?"

_Draco_.

But, oh, how I'd missed that drawl—deep and sensuous and arrogant, so quintessentially _him_—and as I listened to him talk, finally, I felt my lips curve upwards, all on their own; helplessly, as if they were recognizing something my brain hadn't quite registered yet.

"Eavesdropping, Malfoy?" Ron snarled, trying in vain to mask his surprise.

"You're bothering her," Draco informed him. "_Fuck off_."

"You're not even talking to her! Why the hell do you care?"

Draco walked slowly towards him, his eyes narrowed; I held my breath, entranced.

"I _care_, Weasley, because you're upsetting her," he replied dangerously.

Ron stumbled slightly, his ears red.

"I was just talking to her, mate, you don't have to have a fucking coronary."

Draco took another invasive step towards Ron, his gaze unwavering.

"Maybe not. But you should probably fucking leave."

Ron straightened his shoulders, cracking his knuckles.

"Sure you want to do this, Malfoy? Didn't end so well for you last time, did it?"

Draco's lips twitched.

"I let you win, Weasley," he snorted.

"No, you didn't!"

Draco's eyes flickered to me.

"Yes, I fucking did. And Granger took _extra good_ care of me, too, in case you were wondering. I had _so_ many bruises, you understand—in _unspeakable_ places, really—"

"You smarmy rat bastard—" Ron roared, lunging forward.

"Oh, for the love of—stop it, both of you!" I shouted, moving to stand between them.

They both turned to scowl at me.

"He started it," Ron muttered.

"And _you_ should have already left," I replied rudely.

"What? You can't possibly want to be alone with him, not after what he just—"

"I do," I ground out, glaring. "Want to be alone with him. Which means you should _leave_, Ronald."

His cheeks flushed angrily.

"Fine! Have a wonderful bloody life with _Malfoy_, Hermione," he spat, shoving past me and stalking towards the castle. "Live happily ever after and have a dozen ugly blond babies and forget all about your _real_ friends!"

He left a stunned silence in his wake.

"A dozen?" Draco suddenly blurted out, his face pink. "I know he's a Weasley, but…a _dozen_? Does he know how many that is, or can he not count?"

I grimaced, ignoring him.

"So—are you done hiding from me?" I asked flatly.

He thrust his hands in his pockets, glancing down and away before meeting my eyes.

"I wasn't hiding."

"Yes, you were," I scolded. "You know you were."

He squinted at the grass.

"Did you miss me?"

I blushed.

"What if I did?"

He smiled sadly.

"You shouldn't."

"Any particular reason?"

He grimaced and rolled up his sleeves.

"Take a look," he said softly, showing me his left forearm. I was surprised to see a Mark, still fiercely black, etched into his skin.

"It's still there!" I exclaimed, reaching forward to touch it. "Why, I wonder?"

"Everyone's are. It seems that they're…permanent."

"Really? How curious."

He yanked his arm back.

"_Curious_?" he repeated. "I'm branded a fucking traitor for the rest of my fucking life, and you find it _curious_?"

I eyed him warily.

"You weren't a traitor, though," I pointed out. "Everyone saw. Your father was pardoned, and the _Prophet_ even wrote that story about you—"

"Yes, I know," he snapped irritably. "I saved Hermione Granger's life because I'm in love with her, and it was all hugely fucking romantic, and now I'm a hero. _I know_."

I reared back.

"Why are you so angry? Is this why you've been avoiding me? Because—because people _know_ about us? Are you embarrassed?"

He flinched.

"Hermione—no. No, of course not," he argued quietly. "It's just—I thought it would go away. I thought it would disappear. And it's not. It _isn't_."

I chewed the inside of my mouth, mulling over what he'd said.

"And you think that I care," I said slowly. "You think that seeing—_that_—will bother me."

"One of them almost fucking killed you," he said, his voice low.

"Oh, _honestly_—not _this_ again," I burst out, irritated. "You know I don't care about that, Draco. I'm not going to look at your fucking arm and immediately want to run away from you. It doesn't work like that."

"_What_ doesn't work like that?"

"Love. Love doesn't work like that," I said shortly.

He fidgeted.

"You need to know some things, Hermione."

I crossed my arms over my chest, arching a brow.

"Trying to convince me you're not worth the trouble again, _Malfoy_?"

He cocked his head to the side; my heartbeat stuttered.

"I'm almost certainly not worth the fucking trouble, _Granger_."

"Shouldn't that be up to me?"

"You're right. It should. Where would you like me to start?" he asked.

I blinked.

"What?"

"I told you. You need to know some things. Where should I start?" he said again.

"_What _things?"

He kicked at the ground, his posture stiff.

"You need to know that I'm not going to be a good boyfriend. I'm selfish. I won't listen to you. I won't remember your birthday, or our anniversary—not that we really have one, since I don't think shagging you on a windowsill counts as a date. I'm not going to roll over in bed and wake you up with a kiss—morning breath is a _thing_, in case you didn't know, and it's fucking disgusting."

He paused, waiting for me to speak. When I didn't, he continued.

"I lie about insignificant things. I cheat at board games. I don't like to share blankets. I will hurt your feelings, sometimes on purpose, just to make a point. If you don't look pretty, I'm not going to pretend that you do. I don't change my sheets that often. I get hot when I sleep. I don't like to cuddle."

"Draco—" I started to say; he cut me off.

"Let me finish, _Granger_," he said sharply. "I pick fights. I like to argue—and more importantly, I like to win. I'm used to getting what I want. I'm not particularly good at any one thing, except, possibly, being a prick. I don't like to read. I can't—"

He broke off, his eyelids fluttering shut.

"I can't promise that I'll always love you. I can't promise that it won't be hard. I can't promise forever."

I felt my heart stop; his eyes snapped open.

"But when I apologize, I'll mean it. And when I tell you that you're beautiful, I'll mean it. I'll mean it when I kiss you, and I'll mean it when we make love, and I'll—I'll fucking mean it when I say I love you. Always. Every goddamn time. You won't ever have to wonder. You won't ever have to ask."

Silence settled between us, hazy and thick, and I was startled by the sudden surge of electricity that pulsed through the air—something important was going on, something that mattered, and I was afraid to blink, afraid to miss it, because I _knew_, in that bizarre, inexplicable way that absolute truths seemed to always present themselves, that whatever happened next was permanent, just like his Mark.

Neither of us could take it back.

"I jump to conclusions," I finally said, my voice strained. "I don't listen. I'm bad at being wrong. If you say something stupid, I won't be able to stop myself from correcting you. I'm mean when I'm angry. I'm insecure. I get jealous. I don't like your mum."

He studied me intently.

"I'm not good at saying sorry. I don't like being interrupted." I stopped, taking a deep breath. "I'm annoying. I talk too much. I laugh at my own jokes, even the bad ones. _Especially_ the bad ones. I ask a lot of questions. I can be condescending without realizing it, and I have a tendency to assume that I'm the smartest person in the room. I'm—"

"You're difficult," he finished for me.

The space around us seemed to shrink—the quiet was suffocating, rushed, the kind that that doesn't whisper, doesn't creep up on you, doesn't bother with platitudes; no, it was bold, assertive, a mute but vibrant scream that rendered us shocked, speechless, immobile. And the atmosphere felt oppressive, the wind bristling with all the things we'd already said, all the things that left us weak and exposed and vulnerable—because it was obvious, what we were doing, obvious in a way that made my heart want to break.

We could walk away.

We had every excuse. We had every reason to.

His previous urge to possess, to dominate, to make absolutely sure that there was no going back—it had no place in this conversation.

I was already his.

I'd made my choice.

But he was here, standing in front of me, giving me a way out.

And did I want it? Did I want something less intense? Something less aggressive? Something that didn't leave me feeling like I was having a migraine and an orgasm, all at the same time?

"I'm difficult," I echoed, turning towards the water.

He approached me slowly, his footsteps hesitant.

Unsure.

"You really fucking are, actually."

I bit my lip.

"What do you want, Draco? Really."

He didn't immediately answer, and I took the opportunity to gaze at the lake—it was calm, almost uncomfortably still, like an oversized mirror reflecting back the sharp, clear blue of the sky. I wondered if the water was still cold, like it had been the night I'd gone swimming, when I'd been furious with Draco, so hurt and scared, acting on nothing but instinct.

"We haven't had very good luck down here, have we? Together, I mean," I said delicately.

He snorted.

"Thinking we should take it up to the Astronomy Tower, are you?" he drawled.

"Things do seem to end better up there," I responded shyly.

He didn't say anything again; I noticed a muscle working in his jaw.

"Did you mean it?" he asked abruptly.

I wrinkled my nose.

"Did I mean _what_? Honestly, Draco, you really need to stop being so vague."

"What you said, the morning after the battle," he clarified.

I tipped my head back, basking in the warmth of the sun.

"Of course I meant it."

I heard him swallow.

"If you were to say it now…" he trailed off, taking a step closer. "Would you still mean it?"

I turned towards him, opening my mouth to respond.

But then I stopped.

Because he was staring at me, a strangely familiar expression on his face—he'd looked at me the same way, dozens and dozens of times, and I hadn't bothered to think about what it was, what it meant—I'd called it inscrutable, indecipherable, but it wasn't, not really.

Not at all.

It was perfect.

A heady mixture of softness and longing and confusion—how often had he accused me of not understanding what I meant to him? How often had he insisted that I couldn't know, didn't know, had no concept of the depth of what he felt—

And maybe I didn't.

Maybe I never had, not until now, and—

I'd been shrugging off logic for the entirety of our relationship. I'd rationalized that love didn't have to play by the rules, didn't require any sort of explanation—but what if, right now, I needed it to? What if I was making a mistake?

What if I hurt him, without meaning to, without wanting to?

I thought about what he'd said, about everything that was wrong with him and me and us—and then I thought about that day in Hogsmeade, in that decrepit old house, and how we'd made love on a dusty, rickety bench—how afterwards he'd stared at me, breathless, dazed, and whispered, "I love you," and how I thought my heart would burst right and then there, because he'd meant it, because it didn't have to make sense—and then I thought about our first real kiss, how easy and gentle and fleeting it had been, and how it had changed everything, absolutely fucking everything—and then there was his smile, my bottom lip between those perfectly straight white teeth, fierce gray eyes locked on me, only me, broad, smooth, naked shoulders dwarfing my own and his hands on my hips, yanking me closer, pushing deeper, a scream rolling over my tongue—

I reached for his hand.

I laced my fingers through his.

"I'm yours, Draco," I said simply. "I'll always mean that."

He hadn't changed.

He was never going to.

But as he brushed my hair back from my face, smirking—of course he was fucking smirking—I realized that I didn't want him to.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" I asked.

He didn't look away.

"People are watching," he replied quietly. "From the courtyard. They can see us."

"You kissed me before," I reminded him. "Just like this, in fact. With everyone watching."

"That was fucking different."

"What was different about it?"

He brushed his thumb over my chin.

"There's no going back after this, Granger."

I didn't bother to ask what he meant.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders.

"What are you waiting for?" I whispered.

"For you to wake up and hex me, honestly."

I pulled him closer.

"And if I don't want to?"

He traced my lips with his fingertips.

"You always want to hex me."

"I _used_ to always want to hex you," I corrected.

"So now it's only sometimes?" he teased.

I grinned, running my hands down the back of his neck.

"Only sometimes," I confirmed.

He leaned into me, his forehead touching mine, his breath swirling hot and moist against my cheek.

"No one's seen us speaking for weeks," he murmured. "This is going to be really fucking scandalous."

"As long as Snape doesn't catch me in my knickers again, I imagine we'll survive."

He chuckled, the sound rich and deep and mesmerizing.

"I'd prefer you without knickers altogether, to be honest."

I pressed close, closer, as close as I could possibly get, until there was no space between us, not anymore, not even an inch, and I vaguely registered that someone nearby had gasped, but it didn't matter, of course it didn't matter—

"Well, that's convenient," I whispered into his mouth. "Because I'm not wearing any."

He laughed, loudly, before kissing me—swiftly, quickly, without hesitation. There was a brief, strangled cry of outrage from the courtyard.

He pulled back.

And then he smiled.

He smiled, and there was nothing left to say.

OOO


End file.
